


Two Adaars, The Iron Bull, Valo-Kas, and an Assortment of Other (Tal-)Vashoth Confront What It Means to Be (Tal-)Vashoth

by ialpiriel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cultural Differences, F/M, Multi, Qunari, Tal-Vashoth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ialpiriel/pseuds/ialpiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well after the fight with Corypheus (and the Inqustion's subsequent victory) Ataash and Shankatara Adaar continue to hang around doing their inquisitor things. With the Iron Bull still being fairly newly tal-vashoth, discussions are bound to happen when the inquisitors invite their old merc company up to Skyhold for a visit. A Qunari contingent, come to return a handful ex-saarebas to the fold doesn't help matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Adaars, The Iron Bull, Valo-Kas, and an Assortment of Other (Tal-)Vashoth Confront What It Means to Be (Tal-)Vashoth

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: as of posting, this is not quite the final draft. My italics need to be fixed, and will be by the end of 5/15/15. If you'd rather read it with correct italics, check back on the 16th.  
> Update as of 6/30/15: A few typos have been corrected, and italics have finally been done.

“How long has it been since you were hungry?” Ataash asks. She’s knee-deep in snow, deep in the Emprise du Lion, which means that Cole and Blackwall--both significantly shorter--are wading through the snow that’s a third of the way up their thighs, while the Bull--who is taller than her, but not by much--slogs through snow just high enough to sift down into his boots.

“I was hungry last night before dinner,” the Bull replies with a chuckle.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Ataash replies, turning her head just far enough to give him A Look. When she speaks again, she asks another question. “How long have you been a person?”

“I’ve always been a person,” he replies, voice a little too loud and a little too boastful.

“Not likely,” Ataash chuckles. “I was a person from birth until the nightmares started, and then I wasn’t a person again until I ran. Shan was a person after he killed his arvaraad. Shokrakar was a person the day she decided she would leave. My brother was one of the rare few who was always a person, but he was born vashoth and I made sure he grew up like a person.” Ataash shrugs. “I haven’t met a whole lot of tal-vashoth who think they’re really people. And didn’t you say your name was supposed to make you seem less like a person and more like an unstoppable force? That doesn’t sound like the kind of thing someone who sees themselves as a person does. That’s what Shan did for a long time. That’s what a lot of us do, because we don’t know how to be people. There’s no shame in it. You just gotta learn.”

“I’m a person,” he repeats again, carefully, as if Ataash can’t understand her first language.

“Okay,” she replies, and shrugs again. “It’s not my place to tell you if you’re a person or not. You have to decide that for yourself. I’m just telling you--there’s a lot of tal-vashoth out there who aren’t sure either.”

She pauses for a long few seconds to kick her way through the ice crusted on top of the snow, scowling at it all the while.

“I think that’s one reason a lot of them become bandits. They don’t know how to be people anymore.”

The Bull snorts. They’ve had this discussion before, in three or four different forms. They’ve agreed to disagree on the topic of tal-vashoth and their motivations.

“Don’t make that noise at me,” she orders, but there’s a smile in her voice. She drags out her staff as they come to a frozen-over tributary to the Elfsblood, and she whacks the surface of the water a few times to check how solid it is.

+++

“What did she say to him?” Blackwall asks Cole later.

“She told him how to be a person,” Cole replies. The Bull and Ataash are up ahead, arguing in some pidgin of the common tongue and qunlat, just enough common in it to be intelligible to everyone in the party.

“What does that mean?” Blackwall asks.

“He doesn’t know how to be a person, even if he says he does,” Cole says, as if that clarifies anything at all.

+++

Shan is waiting on the wall when the party of four staggers back in the front gate. Cole has been stuck on Ataash’s big Tirashan Swiftwind’s back, his leg wrapped up in a frankly obscene number of bandages and with a stick involved, to keep him from moving his leg and injuring it worse. Ataash is fussing the way she always does, but the Bull and Blackwall trailing behind seem to be happy enough, even if the Bull is favoring his left leg the way he always does after too long on the road or too long on his feet.

Tonight will be an easy night, at least--Ataash will spin stories in the tavern with the Bull as her willing accomplice while Shan sits back in a corner and listens to their bullshit, everyone will get drunk, and Ataash will drag him off to bed to cuddle with through the night. No trade agreements, no prying questions from nobility, no fielding questions from Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana about what he saw in the field. Just food, drinking, and being wrapped up in Ataash’s warm body and soft words.

The night goes about like he expects; Cole is delivered to the medical tents and watches silently as they set the bone in his leg and put a cast around it, before they send him up to the main hall to sleep it off; Blackwall retreats to his barn with a bottle of something strong, the circles under his eyes deep and dark and the kind Ataash will probably snuggle away some time in the next couple nights. He and Shan nod cordially at each other as they pass. They’ve come to accept the reality that Ataash isn’t going to pick one of them and even if they don’t particularly get along, they can make this shit work.

Shan steps into the dark, smoky tavern, full of the clattering of dishes and the quiet noises of people multiplied to a dull roar. Ataash and the Bull stand in the center of the room, gesturing wildly as they tell the story of how a group of bandits (whose name in qunlat means “Ass Lickers,” as far as Shan can tell, which points strongly to the entire thing being fake) tried to stand against them in a last desperate act, after a week of trailing them through the snow and ice and wind. All of them had mabari the size of bears, the way Ataash tells it, and were armed to the teeth with knives and greatswords. Shan settles into a corner to watch Ataash, waits to catch her eye. When he does, she winks, and he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks even as he reminds himself that winking means absolutely nothing.  He looks away, hears Ataash’s voice light up the way it does when she has that face-splitting grin, and he rubs at his cheeks to try to get the blood to go away. It doesn’t work, and he just blushes harder. He’s glad his corner is dark, at least, even if his skin is light enough to show his blush. He hopes people won’t notice him, but even as he thinks it, he sees the Bull looking at him and feels his throat close and his gut clench.

He puts his head down and finishes his drink before he bolts back to the room he and Ataash share, three stories above the tiny chapel. He can feel a pair of eyes on the back of his neck as he leaves, so he unties his dreadlocks and lets them cover the back of his neck. It’s not really a wall between him and the person observing, but at least it makes him feel better.

It covers up the blush, too.

+++

“Will you write a letter for me?” Ataash asks, her arm under Shan’s head, his feet wedged under her legs to keep his toes warm.

“To who?” he asks, scritching his fingernails against Ataash’s bicep.

“Shokrakar,” she says. “I miss the company. And we need more tal-vashoth around. There’s too many humans. Need to hear the noises of _vashothari_ feet again. Everyone here is so light they hardly make the floors creak.” She lifts her arm to rub the back of his head, and he arches his neck to press his scalp into her fingernails.

“Are you getting lonely for barracks?” Shan asks. “You miss having everyone see you naked every day? You miss the incessant noise? The snoring?”

“A little bit, yeah,” Ataash admits. She looks over at him, eyes just barely cracked and a lazy smile across her face. “I miss having my people around me, you know? You do. Remember the first few weeks? You were so scared and so lonely for the qunari.”

“When you put it that way,” Shan mumbles, and squirms until he’s a little more solid against her side. “I don’t think I’d mind having them around again. As long as we could put them in the barracks with the other soldiers. Or if we have a room we could put everyone in. Just as long as they don’t sleep up here with us.”

“What, you don’t want to share the bed with Kaariss?”

“With him? We wouldn’t have enough space to move even if we got the lunk in here with us. And he was still smitten with you when we left, and I’m a jealous man.”

“You seem perfectly willing to share me with Blackwall,” Ataash laughs, and cranes her neck so she can kiss his forehead.

“Yeah, well, you helped me seduce Cass, so I figure we’re even.”

“You didn’t seduce her, you ‘courted’ her,” Ataash slips back into the common tongue to use correct terminology, and Shan whacks her in the side. She huffs and rolls over, pinning his arms to his side so he has to wiggle to even try to escape. He still can’t make it out of her embrace.

“I yield, I yield!” he laughs, helpless.

“That’s what I thought,” Ataash murmurs and lets him go. She lays on her stomach next to him, nuzzles her nose into the side of his neck so she can smell his hair. “Maybe tomorrow we can write a letter to Shokrakar, and maybe they’ll be up here before the month is out. Won’t it be nice to have them around again?”

“It will be,” Shan replies. “It’ll be nice to be the _vashoth-taam_ again.“

“Good to be a people,” Ataash murmurs against his ear. It’s not her bedroom voice, it’s the soft one she uses when people wake from nightmares. It’s the one she used on tal-vashoth who stumbled in in the dead of night too, the ones who were starving and skeletal and scared. It’s the comforting voice. It does its job admirably well.

They rearrange around each other until they can both drift off, Ataash laying awake until long after Shan has passed out and started his snorting, can’t-breathe snore, waiting for sleep to finally come. She keeps meaning to get a potion or a spell that  will knock her out, but somehow it never seems worth it, in the light of day.

Shan dreams of the breach, of Shokrakar and the others as spirits of compassion and bravery and honesty, pulled out of the breach and set to help him defeat a dragon. Ataash dreams of the dead and their demons, just the same as always.

+++

There’s a runner taking the letter out, and so the day is free. Relatively free. Ataash has been dragged to the war room (along with the Bull and Blackwall and Cole) to recount everything that happened on their week long expedition, down to the tiniest detail. Shan spends his morning following patches of sun out in the courtyard, dozing off in them until the sun has moved far enough across the sky he gets cold in the shade. People leave him alone, nod if they catch his eye, but no one says anything. This is routine. One inquisitor sleeps in the sun, the other one is followed by distressing rumors about who and what she spends her free time talking to. Tal-vashoth are weird. No one is going to tell them they can’t do what they want.

It’s almost noon-- the sun is high in the sky, nearly straight overhead--when Cassandra finally makes her way out into the yard. Cullen has her helping train recruits, lately, since Shan’s been around Skyhold instead of dragging her out to go gallivanting around the Orlesian countryside. Shan’s been roped into it a few times too, given a tower shield and told to go to town. Half the recruits had stared at him, trying not to laugh, the first time “the mage” had picked up the shield. It had been awkward on his arm at first, but he had gotten his weight settled quickly, and slammed into the nearest recruit with all the force of his 200-some pounds plus shield. He managed to run a few more recruits over before the day was through, since they had gotten it into their heads that the first time (and the second, and third, and even fourth) he did it had been a fluke.

Cassandra had spent the entire time laughing at him and the recruits (she’s been ogling him too, but he wasn’t going to point it out).

He waits to see if he’ll be asked to help again today, watching the recruits drill with one eye open, his arms crossed over his chest and his legs folded together. Cassandra and Cullen ignore him, though, and he lets his eye drift closed and dozes off.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time Ataash makes it out of the war room, the Bull hot on her heels.

“Let’s fuck around,” she suggests. “We’re gonna get the rest of Valo-kas up here, because we’re lonely, so you’re gonna need training to keep up.”

“I think I can keep up with a bunch of tal-vashoth,” the Bull laughs.

“Ooh, you’ve never met Valo-kas,” Ataash laughs. “Shokrakar trained all of us to wear other people out. If nothing else, I bet we can outdrink the Chargers. Easy. We’ll have to teach you to do your vitaar too. No tal-vashoth is gonna take you seriously with the qunari ways you wear it. You look too much like a ben-hassrath still. You still look qunari. You haven’t eaten your bones yet. You’ll get it eventually.”

The Bull laughs. “I think I can handle it, boss.”

Ataash raises one eyebrow.

“I’m not sure you can. You’re not _vashothari_. There’s a bit of culture shock. You’re gonna have to learn a whole lot to keep up with us. At least this way you get a bit of an introduction. Unless you wanna try swimming the sea at the turning of the tides? Is that a thing you like to do? Wallow in not knowing things?”

“I’m a lot smarter than you think I am,” the Bull tells her, and leans in.

“You can claim you’re ben-hassrath all you want, but we got a lot of people that you’re not gonna be able to get a read on. Shokrakar? She’ll throw you for a loop. They couldn’t even find a job for her. You think all your fancy ben-hassrath training is gonna be any help?”

“I bet it will be,” the Bull says, punches Ataash in the shoulder. She punches him back.

“Fine, fine, don’t take my offer of help. When you can’t keep up, don’t come crying to me. Maybe Shan will take pity on you?” She smirks at him, raises her eyebrows.

“He’ll just laugh at me,” the Bull replies.

“You’ll deserve it,” Ataash replies.They’re both grinning. They can act like they hate each other, but they can’t keep the act up. There are uncomfortable days--especially before the qunari ship blew, though Shan had been along that day, instead of Ataash, and he and the Bull had exchanged quiet words the whole way back. It was the only time Shan had ever touched him with anything other than anger--just a simple touch to the Bull’s shoulder, simple words reassuring him of his worth, and then nothing else said on the subject. They’d gone right back to their usual modes the next day--Shan hissing and spitting every time the Bull got within twenty feet of him, the Bull pushing his luck just to laugh at Shan’s vehement distaste. Ataash would make them sit in separate corners, like bickering toddlers, except for the fact they’re both grown men and trained ex-members of the Ariqun. There are only so many ways to deal with this shit. “Take it easy today,” Ataash tells him. “Go wallow in your qunari-ness.”

“Yeah. You go wake up your boyfriend. Looks like he fell asleep over there.”

“He’s not asleep,” Ataash tell him with a shrug. “He doesn’t sleep out in the open like that. Tal-vashoth habit.”

“Whatever you say,” the Bull laughs, and pats Ataash on the back as they split and go their separate ways.

Ataash goes to sit next to Shan, who barely cracks an eye before he hold out his hand, palm up, and she wraps her fingers around it, settling their clasped hands on her thigh.

+++

Ataash wanders off to the barn after dinner; Shan sees her sitting on Blackwall’s workbench, rubbing noses with the man in question, an hour later. Ataash has a knife and a chunk of wood in her hand, Blackwall has an awl in his and another rocking-griffon on the workbench. They’re flirting, so Shan leaves them be. He’s only a little jealous. Just a little.

He spends his evening with Cass, who has decided it’s warm enough out, now that the seasons are changing, that she can spend the night in the Inquistors’ quarters on nights when Ataash isn’t around. Ataash has invited her up on nights she is around, but Cass has yet to take them up on the offer. Shan’s caught her ogling the both of them, but he hasn’t let on. He does his fair share of ogling; it’s not like he can say anything. He’s thought about things. Not in any great depth--he’s only one man, he can only do so much--but he has thought about it. He admitted it to Ataash one night and she had kissed him sloppily, laughing the whole time. She had agreed it was a nice thought, and then whispered filthy things in his ear until he blushed and had to roll over before he died of embarrassment. She hadn’t brought it up since, but occasionally if she catches his eye she’ll look between him and Cass and wink. He makes rude gestures at her in reply, which she just laughs at.

He and Cass lay on the big bed, both of them sprawling to take up as much room as they want. They’re neither small people, but they’re small enough to make it work. Cassandra brings a book of poetry, and Shan reads it while she lays against his shoulder and breathes. It’s good practice--Shan hasn’t read this much in ages, and definitely not things in his second language. It makes him feel better reading other things, like trade agreements and official letters from official people. He’s pretty sure he’s gotten better at it because of all the practice. Sometimes she dispenses with the book and has him recite things from memory--parts of the Tome, sections of the chant (he learned it after only a few weeks in Haven, when he was curious and bored and went to listen to the sisters sing it every evening), tal-vashoth poetry, sometimes she asks him to compose things on the spot. He’s terrible at impromptu poetry, and they end up laughing at his terrible attempts--and it’s not like she’s any better.

They lay in bed and read poems until well after dark, and then get candles and continue to read until the midnight bells start ringing, whereupon they change into sleeping clothes--Cass into one of Shan’s shirts, which are just slightly too large for her; Shan into one of Ataash’s shirts, which are far too large for him--and curl up under the blankets, twisted together into a human/tal-vashoth pretzel.

+++

A letter comes back from Valo-kas, saying they’ll be two weeks coming in, since they’re on a job. Shokrakar’s handwriting is a mess, and there are splatters of ink all over the page. The letter was clearly dashed off in a hurry. The ink at the end of the letter--including Shokrakar’s signature--is smudged. Shan reads the letter for Ataash, who bounces on the balls of her feet and jabbers about it excitedly. Josephine looks concerned at the rapid-fire back and forth in qunlat, until Shan translates.

Plans are set into motion.

Valo-kas is bringing twenty people--both vashoth and tal-vashoth--up to Skyhold. Twenty people isn’t an impossible number, but they’ll need places to sleep, and they’ll need to be fed, and any sorts of disagreements are going to need to be dealt with. Shan reassures Josephine, Cullen, and Cassandra that Valo-kas is inoffensive for the most part, and any offenses they commit will be gladly reparated by Shokrakar. Room is made in an unused storeroom above the soldiers’ barracks, and beds are moved in, most of them bunks like everyone else has. There are a few people from the various factions who have taken up residence--ancient elves, from the Temple of Mythal, still adrift in a time far from their own; Grey Wardens, still reluctant to return to their strongholds in the wake of their mistakes; chevaliers, kept under careful watch by elves and inquisitors alike; templars, who have their own tower far from the mages; mages who mostly stay in their tower except for meals; inquisition soldiers who mill around the courtyard at all hours--who come to watch and help, but most of them are just curious. Most of them disperse as soon as they know who the bunks are for--most of those looking nervously at each other. Four oxmen--one a mercenary captain, two inquisitors, and one who offered his services as a dependable man in a fight--is more than enough. They don’t need another twenty of them around. That’s just asking for trouble.

The beds get moved, though, and supplies are bought and shipped, and the tavern is warned about the impending arrival of twenty more vashothari mercenaries. While most of the patrons are excited--tal-vashoth are a good time, so far as they’ve seen, and a new set of a lot of them doesn’t seem like a bad thing--the barkeep and the serving staff stare at Shan in growing dismay and horror. Even after he reassures them most of them are quiet, and respectful patrons, and that they tip well, and really there’s never going to be more than five or six of them in the tavern at a time, their haunted looks don’t go away. He leaves them to their quiet horror and busy preparations.

Ataash spends her days practicing reading and writing. She’s still not very good--most of the children around Skyhold can do better, but she doesn’t complain, and even has some of them read to her when she doesn’t want to go to the trouble to do it herself. She’s been very involved in elven texts lately, after drinking from the Well of Sorrows before their defeat of Corypheus, and now that she has time and freedom, she’s trying to transcribe everything she can. It still freaks Shan out when he walks in on her with her eyes closed, breathing deeply, but with a pencil scratching across her paper almost without thought. He tries not to disturb her, since the one time he did she had turned on him and it had not been Ataash behind her eyes. The worst is when she returns to herself with a dozen pages of text she can’t read, and who only a few others can besides. They’ve been sending letters out to Dalish clans begging for help, and while they’ve gotten a few responses, all of them have been of the “We can’t help right now; we are having our own difficulties; we will help when we can” variety. Her trances remind him of the days they were called to assist at deathbeds and difficult births, he holding one hand and mumbling qunari prayers he barely remembers, she with their other hand gripped tight and eyes blank, her lips moving soundlessly as she tries to draw death away from the patient. It didn't usually work, but he’d never heard any blame laid at Ataash’s feet.

He’s seen people recoil from her, now, when she does it, and he wonders how much of her blamelessness was from respect, and how much was from fear.

+++

Some nights Ataash invites Katari up to the inquisitor’s quarters, and the three of them--Katari, Ataash, and Shan--sit around and drink. Katari writes letters back to the tal-vashoth he knows, and Shan and Ataash offer things for him to write. Mostly he rolls his eyes at Ataash’s suggestions.

It gets Shan thinking, though, one night, as they’re clustered together close to the fire.

So the next morning, he sets pen to paper, and writes a decree. He takes it down to Josie near lunch, when he’s finally gotten most of it hammered out.

Josie looks at the decree--and Shan is self-conscious about his handwriting, now, how it’s sloppy around the edges and there are undoubtedly words spelled wrong; but then he remembers he’s not posting this version anywhere--and then she looks at him.

“You wish to offer a safe haven to tal-vashoth?” There’s concern in her eyes.

“Yes, Ambassador,” he replies, bowing his head. He keeps his hands folded behind his back, figures if she can’t see him fidget she won’t recognize it as the nervous gesture it is.

“Would this be to all tal-vashoth?”

“That was the intention, yes,” he replies, nods again. “Most tal-vashoth just need a place to be and a community. We have the space. We could use more soldiers. We could use more bodies.” He scuffs his feet on the stone floor, adjusts his position. “And they deserve a safe place. A lot of them don’t know about the villages. Or about Valo-kas. A lot of them would benefit from both. We have the resources to make use of them.”

“There are...some concerns already, about Valo-kas coming to Skyhold. Many people are concerned about tal-vashoth raiders and criminals.”

“They're starving,” Shan replies. “If they weren’t starving, they wouldn’t kill. We can give them a place to eat and a place to sleep; give them a structure to work under, rules to follow, a people to protect. We can use their skills and still give them choices. If the nobles come after us, point them to me and Ataash. Katari and--and the Bull too. As much as I hate him, he’s a good tal-vashoth. He know what he’s facing. He knows what he needs to counteract it.”

Josie is quiet for a long minute, the only sound that of the fire in the fireplace. Shan tries not to fidget anymore.

“Would you like me to check the spelling and recopy this?” Josie asks. Shan blinks and tries not to audibly sigh in relief.

“Most tal-vashoth aren’t going to be able to read it anyway. Wrong language. Maybe check the words for me, and then I’ll write the decrees myself. We can get it to people who can pass it out in the places it needs to be. Shokrakar has a network, we can use that to get to them. Leliana probably knows a few people, if she knows Valo-kas. There are groups of tal-vashoth in Antiva, if you think you could get in contact with someone there. Antiva and Rivain are going to be the best places to get the word out, since that’s where you get the new tal-vashoth, who don’t know how to exist outside the Qun yet. They’re the ones who are going to need guidance. Maybe some of the bandit groups in the free marches…” Shan starts pacing, ticks places and people off on his fingers as he goes through his list of contacts and organizations. Josephine dutifully writes them down and makes notes next to them.

Shan smiles at her when he runs out of names.

“Thank you,” he says, rubs his shoulder with one hand. He has dimples when he smiles this wide. Josephine considers ways to capitalise on this fact. “For humoring me. I didn’t have anyone to lean on for a long time, so if I can give back to the people that saved me.” He shrugs. He tries to look her in the eye, but he looks away and the color rises in his cheeks. “Ask Ataash for a map of vashothari villages in Orlais. She knows them all, could probably draw them on a map. She went through most of them, and then she memorized the map for Shokrakar. She’ll know other places to send messages to.”

“I’ll talk to her. Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Shan laughs.

“No, thank you,” he replies, then tries not to run out of the room.

He passes the time until dinner sitting with Ataash in the garden, offering commentary on what she’s doing until she makes rude gestures at him and comes at him with her dirt-covered hands. She tackles him and rubs them all over his face while he shrieks and tries to shove her off. Mother Giselle looks on, unimpressed. A couple of the Orlesians sitting around the courtyard on their benches make horrified noises.

At dinner, he gets separated from Ataash, who is being required--by Leliana this time, not by Josephine for once--to apologize to all the people she scandalized in the garden. Shan got off scot-free, seeing as he was the one wronged.

He hums to himself, ready to rub it in that Ataash had to apologize and he didn’t, when the huge horned shadow falls over him. He spins around and hisses, takes a few quick steps back. Any embarrassment he feels about his reaction is immediately overridden by fear and anger and tension.

“What are you thinking, inviting tal-vashoth here?” the Bull asks. He’s looming, and Shan half-crouches. He looks for ways out, but he’s well and truly cornered. This showdown has been a long time coming.

“They need a place to go, and we have one,” he replies. The Bull’s stance is too loose; he’s not planning on fighting. He still thinks his greater size is enough to guarantee a victory. Human mages are flimsy, after all. So are elven ones. Saarebas without training would be too. Shan is already calculating weaknesses, whether he can warp himself through space to get behind the Bull, whether he can incapacitate him. He isn’t favoring his leg, but it should still be weaker. Horns are easy to grab and hard to dislodge from.

The Bull continues to not make a move more aggressive than the looming.

The rest of the tavern goes quiet. They can feel the static in the air, can see the way the two of them are staring each other down.

“You’re willing to invite savages here?” the Bull asks. “You haven’t seen wild tal-vashoth before.” It’s an accusation, and Shan takes it as such.

“I almost was one,” Shan hisses. He bares his teeth, angles his horns up. They have no points, but even a blunted horn to the throat could crush a windpipe at the correct angle. “And they need a place to be safe.”

“So you’re willing to put the entire inquisition at risk for a whim, huh?”

“They’re not at risk,” Shan says. “They’re not at risk as long as tal-vashoth are people and not monsters. You’re more of a danger to them than almost any other tal-vashoth would be. You, who thinks madness is your only option. You who’s too big, you who could snap a human in half with one hand. You’re a bigger danger, because you think there’s only one way for tal-vashoth to be, unless they’re special. I heard what you say about me, what you say about Ataash’s parents. There are more good tal-vashoth than there are good qunari. I’ve never met a tal-vashoth who hadn’t thought. I’ve met a hell of a lot of Qunari who haven’t.”

“You ever had a tal-vashoth try to stab you? You ever seen them poison children? You ever watched them kill innocents? You ever had your entire unit wiped out by people you thought were friendly?” The Bull’s voice is rising.

“I’ve watched Qunari kill fog warriors and steal their children just as often!” Shan counters, on the edge of yelling. “I’ve seen Rivaini children too broken to do anything! If that's not some kind of death--”

“Enough!” Ataash bellows as she comes striding through the door. Both the Bull and Shan stay where they’re standing, ready to fight, but the rest of the tavern patrons pull back into the shadows, shrink into their chairs. Ataash’s eyes are blazing, the mark on her hand pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She looks wild, and there’s a flicker in the shadows behind her. “Both of you, get out of here. Get your food, and go. I do not want either of you in the same building as each other until you have both calmed down.” Her mouth is set in a hard line, the light from the fire casting strange shadows across her face and her clothes. Shan can feel the swell of dark things under his diaphragm, the way he could when Ataash walked out of the burning building with four children in her arms, the way he could when she held the hands of the dying, the way he could when her brother was hurt by a lover and she threatened to tear the city to its foundations to find him. The way he could when she stumbled out of the rift behind him, clutching at her bear tooth necklace with her eyes unseeing.

He backs down.

The Bull doesn’t--he doesn’t move, but he also doesn’t say anything, and he and Ataash stare at each other for a long few seconds before she steps forward, leans up to look him in the eye, so their noses almost touch. “Back down,” she growls. There are too many layers to her voice, the suggestion of deep, dark, old things in her words. Magic things. Violent things. Things that would make Old Gods cringe and shit themselves.

The Bull backs down.

Ataash turns on Shan, and she only has to look at him before he grabs his food and leaves. He keeps his head down, his shoulders curled up around his ears.

When Ataash turns her gaze on the Bull, he opens his mouth to speak, but before he can manage half a word, she points at the food, then at the door.

He does as he’s told, though the way he rolls his shoulders and narrows his eye makes it clear he doesn’t want to.

Ataash gets her own plate of food, then escorts him out of the tavern.

+++

Things have calmed by the time the commotion starts in the courtyard three days later. The two tal-vashoth still can’t be in the same room together, but things really aren’t any worse than they were before. The only thing different is a concrete example of what happens when they clash.

The commotion in the courtyard, though--Ataash and Shan are down the stairs and out the door, sprinting down the steps until they run into Valo-kas’s open arms.

Shokrakar grabs Shan around the middle and heaves him into the air, both of them laughing. Kaariss slaps Ataash on the shoulder, Katoh wraps her arms around her and squeezes until Ataash begs to be allowed to breathe. Ataash and Shan are passed around until they've greeted everyone, then Shokrakar holds out a bundle of things for Ataash.

“Your brother’s,” she says. “Didn’t want to send them along the roads, in case someone went through them. Should be all of his things though. We were all sorry to hear about what happened.”

“Death happens,” Ataash murmurs. She bows her head. “I have done my mourning. Dwelling does nothing but make me miserable now.” She shrugs, looks up to Shokrakar. Shokrakar is taller than Ataash, taller than the Bull; one horn broken; half her face covered in scars. She’s missing fingers on her left hand. She rubs Ataash’s shoulder, nods once, then breaks into a grin.

“So, I hear you have a place for us?” She asks. “Real beds? Good food? The terrified stares of humans?”

“We’ve got just the place for you,” Shan agrees, breaking into a smile so wide it nearly splits his face. It’s a little lopsided, but it makes him look roguish.

“Then lead the way, kiddo,” Shokrakar says, sweeping her arm and bowing. Shan and Ataash show Valo-kas up to their barracks, and immediately a squabble breaks out over who gets the top bunks, and who gets the bottom. It’s the same old fight, no malice in it, and Ataash and Shan and Shokrakar lean back and laugh as the wrestling begins.

When most of the beds have been claimed--people sprawled across them, a few kicking half-heartedly at each others shins, one person punching the bottom of the mattress of the person above them--there are three kids standing in the middle of the room. Ataash doesn’t know any of them, but she recognizes the way they hold themselves, like they’re afraid to take up too much space.

“New kids,” Shokrakar says, turning to Ataash. “They’re yours. Some people are afraid the breach and the rifts are what are causing more mages to...happen, but we had a lot of kids born lately. Had a  lot of kids born the years these ones were. Gonna happen eventually.”

Ataash “hmmm”s and then goes over to the kids. They look up at her with unease in their eyes.

“You’re mages, yeah?” she asks them. She squats, which makes her shorter than them, and grins. “We have a place for mages here. We have a lot of teachers for you too. Not just me and Shan.”

“Shan,” one of them--youngest, a girl, with the beginnings of the curling ram horns Ataash would wear too, if she didn’t keep them sawn short--says, unfolding her arms from around herself. She’s too thin, all bony shoulders and elbows.

“Asaaranda,” Ataash corrects, jerks a thumb at Shan, who wiggles his fingers and smiles.

“Tal-vashoth saarebas,” the girl says, eyes locked on Shan’s. He shakes his head.

“Tal-vashoth mage,” he corrects, switching languages just for the word “mage.” “I’m not dangerous, Ataash isn’t dangerous, you’re not dangerous. Not anymore than any other person is.”

The girl turns that one over in her mind for a minute, then nods.

“Mage,” she says. The other two kids look at her, then mouth the word themselves.

“Let’s go introduce you to the other mages,” Ataash offers, and hauls herself upright. “Give the others time to settle in. We’ll find a better place for you three, with other kids. We have enough of them, around Skyhold. Enough orphans and servant’s kids and all. So you won’t have to sleep with all these adults who snore and drink and curse.”

“Are you trying to protect their childhood innocence, Adaar?” Shokrakar asks, leaning in and giving Ataash a patronizing smile that has them both grinning. “‘Cause last I heard you were about the least-innocent kid the vashothari have ever turned out.”

“Well, it doesn’t stop me from trying,” Ataash shoots back. She holds her hand out toward the girl, and the girl curls her fingers around Ataash’s palm. Her hand is tiny, and she clings to Ataash as Ataash leads her out of the room. The other two children follow behind. Shan stays with Shokrakar, offers to show her around the facilities while Ataash deals with the three newest members of her flock.

+++

The decree had gone out to the people it needed to, and the first group of refugees arrive two days after Valo-kas do, all of them starved, all of them with hollow eyes and matted hair and nothing more than the clothes on their backs. Most of them are adults, only two children among them. One adult is pregnant, and Ataash helps them and all the others who need it--people with lame legs, infected cuts, missing fingers and toes and horns--over to the medical tents. Shan escorts the rest--less than half the full company--up to the hall off the kitchen, where he settles them in on benches and brings out the pot of soup Ataash started the night Valo-kas got in. Almost none of them speak as he ladles broth into bowls.

They slurp down what they have without a moment’s thought. Some cough, most eye the soup kettle as if afraid to ask for seconds. Shan waves them up when he catches an eye.

Three bowls in, one of them finally speaks.

“I’m tal-vashoth,” they offer.

Shan nods.

“I am too,” he replies. “And you're welcome here. This is a place for you to rebuild.”

“I was getting old,” the tal-vashoth says, “And they didn’t think I was good enough to train troops. I’ve heard your soldiers are good, but I want to offer what I know.”

“Then you're welcome here,” Shan says, and bows his head. “I’ll tell Cullen tomorrow that he has a new recruit. Do you have a name? What should we call you?”

“Asalataar,” he says, without a thought. Shan nods and grins.

“Good name. I was Asaaranda when I ran with Valo-kas, but they call me Shankatara now.”

“Shankatara,” the murmur goes through the gathered group.

“The other people you'll want to know,” Shan says, as he starts ladling soup again, this time with more solids: bits of meat, some carrots, chunks of onion and potato. “There is Leliana, who is small and pointy and has red hair. She’s the one with the birds. There is Josephine, who wears gold and is from Antiva.” He passes the bowl on, smiles as he take another one from a pair of outstretched hands. “There is Cullen, who is the blond man in charge of troops. Ataash Adaar is the other inquisitor, the very tall woman who has no hair and almost no horns. There’s the Iron Bull, who is a new tal-vashoth and thinks we’re monsters.” He bobs his head, hands the bowl back, looks around for another. “There’s Cole, who can read the ways your soul hurts and wants to help. Dorian is from Tevinter, but he holds no ill will toward either Qunari or _vashothari_. Madame de Fer is a very important person in Orlais, she doesn’t like uncontrolled mages, but she wants to help people.” He finally locates another nearly-empty bowl, and makes a silent question toward its owner. They pass the bowl to him. “Cassandra is from Nevarra and she is very good with a sword and shield. Blackwall is not a Warden, but he will be a Warden soon. Sera wants to help the small people, like the elves and the poor humans and the _vashothari_ too. Varric is the dwarf. He writes stories.” Shan pauses for a moment, scowls at the rafters. “Don’t tell him things that you do not want the Qunari to hear. He will not think about it and it will cause trouble. Tell him I told you that, and that he can take it up with me.”

The _vashothari_ nod and continue to eat their soup in near-silence.

+++

There are three mages among the tal-vashoth, and Ataash takes them under her wing the same she did for the apostate mages and the Valo-kas mages. She gets Shokrakar to log their names and induct them into Valo-kas, and then leads them around Skyhold, holding their hands and nearly bursting with excitement. The ex-saarebas don’t really know what to do. One of them is missing her tongue, and so she and Ataash sign back and forth, rapid-fire. The other mages seem to understand, since they butt in frequently. Other tal-vashoth start to hang around the room that Valo-kas has taken over, and before the week is out, Shokrakar has another ten people to mother hen over. Most of them are too weak to fight, and will continue to be too weak for a while, but they’re a start. They drill with the rest of Valo-kas, until they break ranks to practice fighting with each other.

The Bull has taken to standing by to watch practice bouts, and Shokrakar has taken to standing across the yard from him, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, smirking at him. Ben-hassrath thinks he knows everything; ben-hassrath hasn’t even been tal-vashoth for a year yet. Ben-hassrath still does his vitaar like a qunari does.

She knows the score the day his mercenary company drills in the yard next to them.

And then it’s on.

So as both companies come to a slow standstill, she waltzes across the yard, casually dodges flying arms and blades and knees and shields, and walks right up to him.

“What do you say,” she starts, “to a test?”

The Bull grunts.

“You think you can take the Chargers?” he asks.

“I could take them singlehandedly,” Shokrakar replies. “Trained the inquisitors myself, and look at the two of them. Walked out of the goddamn Fade. What do you think I could do with a whole bunch of kids with real martial training?”

“Huh,” the Bull grunts, and leans in. “You’ve got a deal.” He bellows at the Chargers to stop what they’re doing, and Shokrakar sticks two fingers in her mouth and lets out an ear-piercing whistle. Both companies fall silent and still.

“I need four volunteers!” Shokrakar yells, and four vashothari shove their way between their companions. They’re some of the old guard, their vitaar painted like various animals. One is wearing the same stag that Adaar does; two are painted as owls; one is done up like a fox. Shokrakar turns and meets the Bull’s eyes again. “You and me, kiddo. Couple busted up old tal-vashoth.”

“Krem, Dalish, Skinner, Rocky. You’re up.”

The rest of the companies disperse to the edges of the yard, form a loose ring that starts to attract others.

Mostly they just square off.

The vashothari understand the importance of posturing before a fight, and even if they can’t call the Bull a tal-vashoth (for real) yet, he seems to get it too. So he and Shokrakar face each other, shoulders back, chins down and horns up. They puff their chests, swagger, rattle swords against shields. They’re grinning as they shove into each others’ space, coming so close together they bounce off each others’ chests. They trade empty threats, teeth bared in grins rather than snarls. The other tal-vashoth posture too, and after a moment the selected Chargers seem to pick up on the drill and swagger back. Krem is especially good at it, shoulders down, head cocked, arms open, tossing out insults that barely count as insults. The crowd starts catcalling, whooping and cheering for one group or another, until the inquisitors come out of the main hall. Things go quiet, until they join the circle and start hollering too.

It’s finally the fox-painted tal-vashoth who throws the first blow, and it’s all downhill from there. Dalish whacks away with her staff, Krem heaves one of the owl-painted tal-vashoth over his shoulder and throws them to the ground, Shokrakar gets her horn hooked around the back of the Bull’s with the sickening grind of horn on horn. She keeps her shoulder pressed into his collarbone, so he can’t get a good grip on her, and she yanks her head back to snap his neck to the side. He yells and gets his arms around her waist, tackling her to the ground. He unhooks his horns on the way down.

It very quickly turns into a rolling wrestling match, first one on top, then the other, teeth bared and faces smeared with dirt, hands at throat and on wrists, knees to stomachs and crotches, teeth snapping near ears, horns just barely missing eyes and ears and faces.

When the fight ends, They’re both laying on their backs, sprawled spread eagle. The rest of Valo-kas and the Chargers dispersed into the crowd as soon as the two of them started to get rough.

“You’re alright,” Shokrakar gasps. “You’ll be alright, I think.”

+++

More tal-vashoth trickle in, as the weeks go by. There’s a new dozen each week, sitting in the lower hall and slurping their soup, usually made by Ataash. She always has a kettle of it going at night, now, and she and Skokrakar and a growing assortment of _vashothari_ (mostly new) sit around it and talk into the late hours. Sometimes Shan wanders in and serves himself a bowl, sits for a while and listens. Sometimes humans come in, too, and keep quiet as they eat and the _vashothari_ talk. The Bull comes in twice, and tries to take up space exactly once, before everyone ignores him. When he stops trying, they let him back into the conversation.

The mages--human, elven, vashothari--are the largest group that congregates in the cellar. They’re building themselves into people, leaning on each other. Ataash gives small magic lessons in a back room, gathering flame into her palm and trying to teach others how to talk with spirits. Sometimes Cole sits behind her and offers pointers and explanations in places where she can’t. She smiles at him every time he does.

Only one group of tal-vashoth comes during the night, and the lower hall turns into a flurry of activity. It’s a busy night around the soup pot, and so Shokrakar goes to get more water, more salt, more soup bones and meat and vegetables to replenish the pot. The vashothari who haven’t joined Valo-kas stay sleeping in the lower hall, piles of hay as beds and moth-eaten wool blankets or their traveling cloaks for warmth. It’s not for lack of beds--there are more than enough beds, all over Skyhold, to house the six dozen of them. It’s more for want of companionship.

Here, they’re all together.

Here, they’re a community, lead by the two most powerful people in Thedas, who laugh with them and feed them and tell them stories and make dirty jokes.

Here, they don’t have to be alone with their nightmares.

Ataash and Shan spend more and more time sleeping in the lower hall with them, curling up together on their own pile of hay when they get tired, sleeping under the same wool blankets as everyone else.

They clean it once a week, boiling water and adding soap, clearing out the straw, taking the blankets out and shaking them clean, then hanging them to air dry along the walls in the sun. They mop the floors, wash the walls, sing songs and laugh at bad jokes. It’s never bright, but the mages manage to bend the sunlight around until it is, for those few hours on that single day.

This week, they’ve finally built boxes for the straw they sleep on, turning them into bunks three tall. Each box can hold three or four people, and they’ve moved them down into the hall to turn it into a real living space. This week’s hay is being forked into the boxes when Josie appears in the doorway.

Everyone goes quiet as they notice her standing there, watching them.

“Inquisitors Adaar, I need you in the war room,” she says, scanning the room for Shan--who has a mop and a bucket and is working on cleaning the back room Ataash uses for summoning spirits--and Ataash--who is helping keep straw distribution roughly equal across all the beds. “We have a...situation.”

“We’ll be right up,” Shan reassures her.

“As quickly as possible,” Josephine says again. She leans forward onto her toes. There’s a muscle in her jaw that’s twitching.

Shan passes his mop off onto a teenager, Ataash hops down from the bunk. She wipes her dusty hands on her (equally dusty) pants.

“What has happened?” Ataash asks, as they ascend the stairs to Josephine’s office.

“We received a letter from the qunari, addressed to you,” Josephine looks back at Shan, who nods, “and the Iron Bull. It also concerns the tal-vashoth refugees we have been taking in.”

“Oh.” It’s Ataash who speaks. Shan stays silent, except for the quiet sound of his palm on the railing and the sharp click of his boot heels.

“It demands you either turn the tal-vashoth housed here over to the qunari, along with the locations of safehouses, or they’ll siege the hold. The tal-vashoth they want turned over include you, Shankatara. They also want the Iron Bull.”

“We’re not turning them over,” Shan says. “They came here for safety, so they’ll be safe. They should know, though. We should tell them. Most of them would leap to our defense, and the ones who wouldn’t are too sick or too injured. Even if they can’t or don’t want to fight, they should know.”

“Valo-kas has a plan,” Ataash adds. “In case our alienage was ever attacked  by qunari. We had plans for everything from a single spy to a full-scale attack. Most of the plans can be adjusted to Skyhold. Talk to Shokrakar, take her to talk to Cullen. The more soldiers we have defending us, the better we will do if it comes to a fight.”

They stop at the top of the stairs, Ataash and Shan looking at Josephine.

“Then there is no hope of compromise?” Josephine asks.

“There are no acceptable losses,” Shan replies. “Most of those people fought their way out of a belief that wanted them dead. The only difference between me and them is dumb luck.” Shan hold up his right hand, wiggles his fingers. “They don’t go back unless they want to. I’m not turning them over to the qunari. I couldn’t do that to them.”

“I understand,” Josephine nods. “Then we must prepare for a siege. If the qunari have sent this letter, how long do we have to prepare?”

“A few weeks at the most. Probably less. We’ll need to start cutting back food now, to save some for as long as we can. We don’t need to cut back much, not yet, but no more extravagant feasts.” Shan ticks things off on his fingers as the trio walks to the war room. “We need to get the people who are not required staff and who aren’t willing to fight--and I mean the Orlesian and the Fereldan diplomats, let’s not mince words here--evacuated back to wherever they came from, unless they’re willing to take up arms to support the inquisition with their own sweat and blood. We could do with a few dozen mabari on our side.”

“The mages will be able to help,” Ataash offers. “I trained them well. My mages, I mean. I think the human mages will be a great help too, but they’re not mine to boss around. Fiona will need to be talked to about having them help.”

“Mages will be good,” Shan says. Stepping through the door to the war room, he turns to Cullen, who is in his usual place. “If you can get me a dozen barrels of saltpeter, a half dozen of brimstone, and a lot of charcoal, I can make you _gaatlok_. It won’t be qunari grade, but it’ll explode like it’s supposed to.”

“How many barrels of each do you need?” Leliana asks. “Hard numbers.”

“How much do you want?” Shan asks. “I can do it by weights, and a dozen barrels of saltpeter should be more than enough to make deadly amounts of _gaatlok_. Especially if the charges contain any sort of shrapnel--broken dishes, glass, metal, nails. Anything that will cut. Won’t do much against _vitaarantaam_ , but it’ll still work against eyes.”

“I’ll get you what I can,” Leliana agrees.

“So we’re--” Cullen starts.

“Repelling a Qunari invasion, yes,” Josephine finishes. “How they plan to get to Skyhold is a mystery, since even the nearest sea routes would be difficult for qunari to travel without being noticed.”

“They will want to be seen,” Ataash interjects. “They will want to be big and scary and powerful. They want to look like more than they are. If they are bigger, then people won’t fight as much, because they’re scared. They will probably bring mages, because people are afraid of mages.” Ataash taps her fingernail on a tiny port town to the north of the mountains. “They will land near here, and then walk. They will be tired when they get here. We have time to get food and supplies. We do not have a lot of time, but we should have enough.” Ataash looks between Cullen and Leliana, her chin tilted down so she’s looking up from under her eyebrows. “They want to scare the tal-vashoth. If they think the Qunari can get to them, then they will go willingly.”

“Some of them will,” Shan says. “Some of us will take a dozen of the bastards with us before we die by the sword.”

“You are not dying,” Ataash says. “I will drag you away myself if I have to, you are not going to throw yourself at them to kill yourself.”

“I’m not planning on dying,” Shan agrees.

“Good,” Ataash says, and nods once. She wraps her arm around his shoulder, squeezes the back of his neck with her hand--not hard, just enough to remind him she’s there. He leans against her side, tucking his arms across his body, digging his shoulder into her ribs and knocking his horns against her shoulder. “If you have your plans here made, I will go tell the vashothari what is happening?”

“Good idea,” Shan agrees, and wiggles away from her. He flattens his hands on the map and hunches his shoulders. Leliana and Cullen draw close, and Josephine looks up at Ataash.

“You will want to get the ambassadors out,” Ataash murmurs. “I will talk to my people, but you have to talk to your people. You are the only reason they listened to me in the first place.”

Josephine nods, and her brow knits as she hefts her tablet a little higher. Ataash sighs and rubs her back, jsut below the nape of her neck, before she turns to go back downstairs.

In the basement, Ataash doesn’t even have to clear her throat before the _vashothari _turn to watch her. She’s a mage, a powerful one; she’s the Herald of Andraste whether they’re Andrastian or not; there are stories of how she speaks to the dead and lets spirits possess her; she’s friendly. She helps with heavy lifting, and she doesn’t use magic without permission. She’s accepted, even if they are uncomfortable with magic. She’s important.__

“The qunari are coming to kill you,” she says, when everyone quiets down and looks to her. “And we are not going to let them.”

+++

The _vashothari_ join Skyhold, then, for real. They take up their places, in the forge, in the kitchen, in the stables, on the battlements, in the undercroft, around the library, in Leliana’s rookery. Five of them set up a station in the undercroft under Shan’s direction, rolling in barrels of saltpeter and sulfur and hauling blocks of charcoal. Dagna seems thrilled to have someone to teach her how to make _gaatlok_ , as Shan and two of the women sit at the table and fiddle with scales and scoops and bowls. She learns quickly, and one of the women hands over her seat to  the dwarf after only a few hours. Shan is worse at it, but he’s determined, and even as the women roll their eyes at him and grin knowingly he ignores them. He smiles at them sometimes, but it’s distant and there’s no thought behind it.

Ataash spends her time with Valo-kas, which has absorbed most of the _vashothari_ who want to fight. Ataash takes the mages and runs them through drills herself--fireballs, lightning direction, healing, spirits, ice, barriers, even some of the things Shan does with his knight-enchanter training. They’re fast learners, especially the saarebas, who still watch her with wary eyes. They look uncomfortable in their own skin, so Ataash tries to spend more time with them. She can’t fix them--you can’t just “fix” people, they don’t work that way--but if nothing else she can make them more comfortable with her and their existence. It takes a week of aggressive jokes and a couple pranks before any of them even so much as cracks a smile. Shan can’t be in the same room as them, gets too stiff and too uncomfortable to be of any use at all.

That’s how Shan ends up back in the tavern instead of out in the yard, looking over letters Josephine has written to various allies asking for supplies. He’s supposed to be inventorying what they’re asking for, so they can compare actual results later. It’s hard to do that, though, with the Chargers laughing on the floor below. Shan can’t blame them. They know what’s coming.

His hackles go up when the Bull flops into the chair across from him, grinning. He doesn’t say anything, but he watches the Bull out of the corner of his eye.

“So,” the Bull says.

“Yes,” Shan replies. It’s not a request that the Bull make his point, or anything, really. It’s a sound to fill the space between them.

“Fighting off Qunari. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“The day what? The day you proved you really weren’t Qunari anymore? Happens to every tal-vashoth.” If that’s what this is about, Shan can probably ignore him and make him go away.

“You ever have regrets?” the Bull asks, tries to inflect it like he’s curious, instead of as an actual question he can apply to his life.

“Never met a tal-vashoth without them. Never met a vashoth without them either, no matter what Adaar wants you to think she feels.” So this is going to be a real conversation. Shan sits back in his chair, presses the heels of his hands into his thighs, and arches his back and hunches his shoulders until the joints crack. He rolls his shoulders and crosses his arms loosely over his chest.

“Yeah?” the Bull asks.

“Mmhmm,” Shan agrees.

“What sorts of regrets you got?” he asks, as if Shan hasn’t done everything to keep him at arm’s length the entire time they’ve known each other.

“I’m not going to share,” Shan says, and shakes his head. “Look, I don’t like you, you don’t like ‘my sort,’ we are never going to be friends. But you’ve got a choice here. You can stand with us, say with us that you deny the qun, and cut qunari down, or you can stay back until the fighting is over and wait for us to get back. You have to decide. Not now. But soon. You have to pick a side. You gotta take our good with our bad, and you can’t just act like these are some strange breed of tal-vashoth that stayed civil. You have to choose for yourself. Don’t just lean on me and Ataash and expect us to make your decisions for you.” And he can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth, then, no matter how bad he knows the idea is: “I know Qunari are good at taking orders, so I know why you want to listen to whatever we have to say.” And the Bull’s eye darkens and he leans forward, and Shan tries to recover. “Which is why you have to choose on your own. I can’t make that decision for you, Ataash can’t, Shokrakar can’t, Krem can’t. You have to decide. I can’t force-feed you an ideology you don’t want to listen to.” Shan leans forward, arms still across his chest. He’s got his ankles crossed and his legs stretched out. He’s trying to take up space, even as he feels like he should be curling in on himself, small quiet instead of big and stubborn. “But for what it’s worth, if I see you hurt any of the tal-vashoth here, I will personally disembowel you. That goes for acts of omission just as much as acts of commission. You stand by while a qunari guts one of my people, you’re just as much to blame, as long as you could’ve stopped it. Just so we know where we stand.” Shan gathers up the letters again and starts reading them, determinedly not looking at the Bull while he does so. The Bull stays sitting where he is, nursing his drink and watching Shan.

“You woulda made a shitty ben-hassrath,” the Bull grunts.

“That’s why they gave me a shield and told me to tackle people who tried to run away from the viddathlok.” Shan doesn’t look up from his letters. “Less finesse than an interrogator or someone named ‘liar.’ Mostly I just hit stuff. Still my preferred method of dealing with things bigger than me.” Shan glances up, catches the tail end of the Bull’s grin. He tries not to grin back reflexively. “If you want to be proactive in helping the _vashothari_ out, go talk to Shokrakar. She’s putting together a battle plan with Cullen. Last I heard, we needed more troops on the ground, unless you want to split the Chargers up into ranged and hand-to-hand, and keep some up on the battlements. I know Ataash is leading a contingent of mages on the ground, and I’m supposed to keep the ones on the battlements in line. Still tentative plans, but Shokrakar knows more. I’m still trying to figure out the trade agreements.”

“Have fun with that, kid,” the Bull says, and hauls himself to his feet. He trots off, back to the Chargers.

“Hey,” Shan calls, when the Bull is at the top of the stairs. The Bull turns, raises one eyebrow. “Biggest regret is that I didn’t leave sooner. Guess I can’t blame myself, since I didn’t know any better, but I wish someone had given me an option first. Had at least told me there was a way out, even if it was bloody. Wouldn’t have liked it, but maybe I wouldn’t have been so scared. Would have killed less, maybe. Wouldn’t have beaten myself up inside. Would’ve gotten over myself faster, less pain, fewer problems, fewer nightmares, less need to cling desperately to anyone who acted like they gave half a fuck about me. You’ve got the Chargers behind you. Keep that in mind. They’re the reason you’re tal-vashoth. Keep them as a reason. Or learn to be tal-vashoth for yourself. But know your reason.”

The Bull smirks and nods. Shan nods back, and the Bull heads downstairs.

+++

Shokrakar is sitting on a bale of hay, ankle crossed on her knee, watching the courtyard. There's no one drilling there right now, just people wandering back and forth and the merchant talking to one another across stall walls. Cullen has her battle plans written up and tacked to the wall in his office, and is going over them with some of his lieutenants. The Valo-kas warriors already know the terrain and the plans well enough, they’re just waiting for Shokrakar’s order.

“Hey, Shokrakar.” She doesn’t turn as the Bull plops down beside her. He’s big; he takes up space. She lets herself sprawl a little more. Ben-hassrath thinks he controls the space around him. Ben-hassrath thinks he has any pull here. Ben-hassrath thinks being big is a good thing, because he thinks bulk makes people back down instead of stab at you with a pitchfork.

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Shankatara told me to come talk to you about coordinating defense efforts.”

“He did? Good. He’s a good kid, even if he gets a little extremist sometimes.” Shokrakar sits up, leans forward. She still doesn’t look at him. “You’ll be of greatest use on the ground, chopping people in half. We can use Dalish on the walls with Shan, and if we can get Rocky in on the _gaatlok_ production in the undercroft, we could do with an explosives expert.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. You say what I think you said?”

“What? _Gaatlok_?” Shokrakar turns then, mouth curling up into a smile. “Not so stupid now, are we? Of course we know how to make it. We’ve got every sort in the network. Tamassrans, engineers, bakers, butchers, blacksmiths. Mages, boatbuilders, soldiers. You get people like me who can do a little of everything, you get people like Adaar who are first-generation vashoth who know what they deserve, you get people like Shan who are tal-vashoth and know what they’ve seen. We’re angry and we’re smart, and everyone’s seen a little of the process. You think we can’t combine our knowledge?” Shokrakar laughs. “Helps to have people like Shan and the tamassrans around, people who’ve been in the same room even if they don’t know the exact recipe. We’ve done our experimenting. He blew up a bridge once, you know that? Got a barrel of _gaatlok_ put together, placed the charges, and then set it off remotely with a couple fire spells. Was a pretty big boom. Scared the shit out of the other guys, we swept through them the way a hot knife goes through rotten butter.” Shokrakar crosses her arms and leans back. “If you wanna play with some of it, we’ll probably have some left over after the battle. I’d rather not blow up my soldiers on the ground, so it’s gonna be of limited use to us. If you can get an archer to shoot explosive arrows for us, that would be a great help. If you can’t, I think Cullen has a few archers I can make use of.” Shokrakar leans back a little further, tilts her head so she can rest her back against the rough wooden wall without knocking her horns. She thumbs her chin. “Maybe I can get that Sera kid to shoot for me.”

The Bull throws his head back and laughs. “You wouldn’t even have to bribe her.”

“Ooh, good.” Shokrakar rubs her hands together. “Why don’t you go get her and come with me down to the undercroft, we can see what we can cook up.”

+++

People start leaving more than they arrive. The air is different, as nonessential staff and ambassadors disappear. There’s a contingent of thirty Fereldan soldiers, all of them with mabari, that arrives and bulks the population back up, but only until another set of visitors disappears. Soon, it’s just troops--Grey Wardens and chevaliers and ancient elves, mages and templars and Fereldans, _vashothari_ and the Chargers and inquisition troops.

Ataash, Shan, Shokrakar, Cullen, the Bull, and Leliana make sweeps of the perimeter, discussing changes in strategy that need to happen. Shokrakar has never defended a castle, but Cullen has never fought qunari. He tries to argue about the invasion of Kirkwall, and Shokrakar, Shan, and Ataash all turn on him, their eyebrows raised. He goes quiet. Leliana laughs behind her hand, and Shokrakar winks at her.

Soon, even the arrivals peter out, and caravans of supplies stop coming.

The last one that arrives is a single wagon with a single barrel of dried meat in the back, its driver shaking, its horse ridden close to death.

“There’s qunari on their way up the road,” the driver gasps. “They ambushed me, I barely got away.”

Josephine ushers him to the front hall, where they feed him, and he tells them what he knows about the qunari coming up the road. Cullen has soldiers bar the gate, and Shokrakar begins to marshall Valo-kas into action. Their new recruits are still skinny, but there’s fury in their eyes. She gives them swords and teaches them what she can.

“Were there mages?” Ataash asks. She’s leaning back in her chair, eyes closed and brows furrowed, like she’s trying to put together a picture in her head. “Horns like his, with big black collars and long gold masks?” She jerks her thumb at Shan, who reaches up to touch one of his horns.

“There were a whole bunch,” the driver agrees. “Spooked my horse.”

“How many is a whole bunch?” Shan asks. “More than a dozen?”

“Oh, more than two score, probably,” the driver agrees.

“Two score,” Ataash snarls. “ _Vashedan_.”

“Two score saarebas is going to be eight arvaarad,” Shan murmurs. “And more of the antaam.”

“They want us back,” Shokrakar quips, and rests her hand on Shan’s shoulder. She squeezes once before he shrugs her off. She’s laughing, but only to ease the tension in the room. her shoulders are hunched the same as the other _vashothari_ ’s.

That’s when the others start to trickle in--a tal-vashoth in a doorway, some of the Valo-kasaad in front of the undercroft door, a scrawny vashoth kid leaning over the balcony above. They begin to cluster, two, three, four at a time, shoulders bumping and quiet looks of fear passed between them.

“We turn the mages,” Shan says. “We turn the mages, then lay waste to rest of the Qunari.”

“And you’re volunteering,” Shokrakar says. It’s a statement, not a question.

“Of course I am. Who better to talk to saarebas than someone with the scars and the horns and the whipmarks?”

“You are not dying,” Ataash snarls, and half-stands. The humans in the room flinch. Even the _vashothari_ shift uneasily, the dark welling up behind their breastbones, something hungry and old curling its claws into their bellies. “They will know you, and they will kill you.”

“You of all people should know what death is like,” Shan replies. He’s pushing himself back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, face set into a scowl.

“And thats why I don’t  want you dead,” Ataash snaps. “If you are going, then I am going with you.”

“Fine,” Shan agrees, and nods. “There’s no one I’d rather have with me anyway.”

Ataash half-squints and presses her lips together, but she doesn’t say anything else. She sits. It’s Josephine who intervenes next.

“We cannot risk our inquisitors to the Qunari,” she says, in the same tone she used before the ball, when she insisted on uniforms, the same tone she uses when the inquisitors need to present their best for someone, the same tone she uses when she delivers any sort of ultimatum.

The hall goes silent, more silent than it already was, when Ataash turns to face Josephine. Josephine plows ahead, straightens her back and juts her chin.

“It is too dangerous. If either of you is killed--”

“I can protect us,” Ataash snarls. “I have always protected us, and I will continue to protect us, no matter what I must do to keep us safe.” The dark things are flickering at the edges of everyone’s vision, tall and lanky and shadowy and indistinct.

“I...see,” Josephine agrees, swallowing once, hard. She’s not a mage, cannot pretend to know what Ataash is referring to, what this dark thing she can’t put a finger on or a name to is, but she’s not going to cross them.

Ataash nods, and lets her posture go lax.

“So we designate captains in our places,” Shan continues, when everyone's settled again. “You,” he says, and points to one of the tal-vashoth, a scrawny girl with a recently-broken nose and her hair in long braids. “Get the _vashothari_ in here, and we’ll delegate.”

“Yes sir,” she says, and disappears through the door. As soon as she’s gone, and as soon as the masses _vashothari_ have moved in to cluster around the tables, the Bull throws open the doors.

“There are Qunari-” he starts, and stops, as twenty pairs of red and violet and, most of all, qunari eyes turn to stare at him.

“We know,” Shan says. “Make sure the gates are barred, and make sure no one is hurt by anything they fling over the walls. If they send an emissary up, yell for us. We’ll at least pretend to listen, eh?” Shan looks around at the others, who laugh. “Really, though,” he says, and turns back to the Bull. “Adaar and I are going down there, dressed as saarebas, so we need to plan.”

“You’re what?” the Bull laughs, before he realizes Shan isn’t joking. “You two really are suicidal, aren’t you?’ he asks, when they fix him with stares.

“Best way to win is to turn the mages against the Qunari. Even if not all of them will listen, enough will listen that we can do a lot of damage.” Ataash looks around at the _vashothari_. “If we take out their arvaraads, they will be free. There will be some who want to leave, and even if they don’t, then we are not behind any more than we were. An unleashed saarebas will burn itself, or it will be killed by the other soldiers. No matter what, they are one person in our favor, or they are one less person against us.” Ataash shrugs. “Things are happening now. If you have information we do not, please, we want to hear it.”

“There are an awful lot of soldiers out there,” the Bull offers. “Two or three hundred, at least.”

“Two score mages,” Shan says, and nods. “That sounds like the right ratio.”

“You don’t have that many soldiers here, so you can’t hold them off with numbers.”

“Do they have cannons?” Leliana asks.

“None that I’ve seen,” the Bull admits.

“No adaar like our Adaar,” Shokrakar laughs, and slaps Ataash on the shoulder. Ataash grins.

“That makes our defense easier.” Shan taps the tabletop.

The rest of the _vashothari_ come up from the basement, then, headed by the girl Shan sent down to retrieve them.

“I need two volunteers!” Shokrakar yells. “I need a mage, and I need someone who can shoot a bow and arrow, and hell, I need someone who can hold a sword and doesn’t feel bad about gutting Qunari!”

Three volunteers step forward, and Shokrakar nods to Shan and Ataash.

“Go regroup, and then we’ll get you two in costume,” she says, and grins.

+++

The Bull heads back out to watch for any runners, and Shokrakar gets her volunteers set up. The humans disperse to their stations--Cullen goes to summon the Inquisition soldiers, Leliana heads up to the rookery to arm herself, and Josephine goes to coordinate efforts on the ground--and the rest of the _vashothari_ go to grab their weapons or to hunker down out of harm’s way. Ataash and Shan take their moment to head up to the inquisitors’ quarters, for a last few minutes of alone time.

“What you said out there--” Shan starts.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ataash replies. “I don’t like talking about it, and the more people know, the less people want to hear about it. Leave it be. I'll tell you when it becomes relevant to you. It’s not yet.”

“It’s going to be something I don’t want to hear about,” Shan says, flatly.

“Probably,” Ataash agrees. She turns to look at him. “But I want you to be safe. I want everyone to be safe.”

She wraps her arms around him, and he leans into her touch. She presses her nose to his scalp, breathes deep. He curls his arms around her middle.

They rock back and forth a little, breathing falling into sync.

Shan loses himself in the feel of her arms around him, and the feel of his arms around her, and barely hears the words.

“Keep him safe,” she hisses, “Keep him safe as you kept me safe.”

“Who are you praying to?” he asks, pulls away to look up at her. She looks away from him.

“You’ll be safe,” she repeats, instead of giving a name. She pulls away from him, paces toward the glass door, then paces back without pausing. “I couldn’t protect Bin from Corypheus, but maybe I can protect you and me from the Qunari. This had better.” Ataash sighs again, and wraps her arms around Shan. She clings to him, and he clings back.

“I sought my soul in places the prophet cannot see with his dead eyes, and I found it in you,” Shan whispers. It’s been a long time since he used the poem he wrote in a conversation with her, longer since he changed the words around to suit his immediate needs.

“There are probably better places to find a soul,” Ataash laughs, but then continues. “I sought my soul in places I could not know in my small world, and I found you instead.” She pauses. “Probably for the best.”

“Yeah, probably,” Shan agrees, and presses his lips to her collarbone. She kisses his forehead, and he laughs. “You should go kiss Blackwall too. Make sure he knows you like him.”

“Then you had better tell Cass you love her. If we’re going to be doing dramatic goodbyes, you better do at least one with your lover who reads romance novels. She’ll understand the value of a good last-minute declaration of love. Not like us sentimental vashoth who just tell you that kind of shit all the time.” Ataash pulls away just far enough to maneuver around him, kisses his ear and his nose and his neck with a tiny “I love you” following each one. He laughs and tries to kiss her back, until their arms are locked together and neither of them can actually reach the other one. They giggle.

“Shokrakar will want us soon,” Shan sighs, but he’s smiling.

“She knows she can barge in on us whenever. She knows we won’t be doing anything before the battle.”

“Oh? Are you suggesting we will be doing something after the battle?” Shan asks, waggling his eyebrows.

“You bet we are,” Ataash replies, pulls away from Shan, ducks in for a last kiss on the lips. “Let’s go. Haven’t heard from a messenger yet, one has to be coming soon. We should be around for that, at least.” Shan nods, and follows her back down the steps.

+++

The Bull is on the wall above the gate, watching. There is a single Qunari running up the path, and everyone is watching him approach.

“Where are the inquisitors?” the Bull asks one of the soldiers standing nearby.

“Last I heard, they were going up to their quarters,” the soldier replies.

The Bull harrumphs and grins. Getting a little action before the battle, then. Good on them.

“Well, someone should probably go get them,” he suggests. “That runner’s gonna be here soon, and they’ll want to hear what he has to say. Get Shokrakar, Leliana, and Cullen up here too. They’ll want to be here.”

“Yessir,” the soldier says, and salutes. The Bull salutes back, and the soldier heads off toward the stairs. He’s stopped by Ataash, who waves at the Bull.

“We are here,” she says, and adds, “The others are coming soon. They will be here before the messenger is.”

The Bull nods, sniffs the air. They don’t smell like they’ve been up to anything, but Shan is blushing and Ataash is grinning too widely to be entirely innocent. Maybe they’re sneakier than he gives them credit for.

The two of them settle onto the battlements, Ataash with her legs dangling over the edge, over open space, Shan with his feet still on the cobblestones and twisted to see down the road. The Bull leans next to them.

“So, got any last-night-in-Thedas plans?” he jokes. Ataash raises her eyebrow, Shan doesn't deign to respond. He’s mouthing words under his breath, squinting at the horizon. It’s only just dark, the moon only just rising above the mountains. It’s still orange, the way it is when it’s near the horizon. The Bull watches Shan’s lips until he gets what he’s saying, then laughs a little.

“That your battle cry?” he asks.

“It’s the best one I know,” Shan agrees. “Heard a story about a tal-vashoth who said it just before he disemboweled himself to avoid being re-educated. I figure that oughta strike fear into the hearts of Qunari everywhere. Reminds me what I’m fighting for, reminds them what I’m fighting for. Harder to kill someone when you remember they used to be one of you.”

“No, it’s not,” the Bull says.

“That’s only because you convinced yourself tal-vashoth weren’t real people,” Shan replies. The Bull nods after a moment; Shan watches him out of the corner of one eye; they say nothing else, until the advisors appear on the steps. Shokrakar follows close behind, her cobbled-together armor clanking and rustling. Behind her are her three captains.

“How close is the runner?” Shokrakar asks.

“Another ten minutes until he's in arrow range, another fifteen until he can speak to us,” Ataash says. Shokrakar nods.

“Cullen, go get your troops ready to muster. We’ll meet them at the gate. The rest of the group won’t be far behind, maybe two hours at most.”

“I can see them,” the Bull says. “An hour, at most.”

Shokrakar grunts. Cullen looks between them, and goes to do as he’s told.

“How is this likely to go wrong?” Josephine asks.

“If they have adaar,” Shan says. “This place is old and it’s stood for a long time, but it’s hard to fight against an iron ball exploded out of a metal tube. They’d be able to break through the walls with that easily, and then we’d be shit out of luck.”

“I’ve sent scouts,” Leliana says. “They’ve all continued to report none.”

“Good,” Ataash says, and stands. “We have the upper hand, then.”

The others look at her and nod.

“Your name--” Josephine starts.

“I chose Adaar because I thought it was funny,” Ataash says, absentmindedly. “It has not failed me though. It is still very appropriate very often.”

“I see,” Josephine says, and they lapse back into an uncomfortable, expectant silence.

The messenger draws into speaking range, and Josephine makes a move to step forward before Shan cuts her off.

“Get inside, and stay safe,” he says. “This isn’t your fight. This was never your fight. Let us have our fight, and let us make our declarations.”

Josephine opens her mouth to argue, but the Bull shakes his head and places his hand on her shoulder.

Josephine scowls, but Leliana takes her arm.

“Leave them be,” she murmurs. “This is not our fight.”

The messenger stops in front of the gates, and yells up to the gathered _vashothari_.

“The Qun grants you one last chance to turn over the rebel tal-vashoth to us! We will leave without a fight!”

Shan leans forward as the others pull back. He bares his teeth, plant his palms on the still-warm stones of the ramparts, and shouts, “I deny the Qun!”

The messenger stares for half a second before his eyes narrow.

“Then you have brought this upon yourself.”

“I deny the Qun!” Shan yells again, his voice cracking. He recovers gamely. “I deny it! The Qun holds no power here, the Qun offers only death and pain! I deny the Qun!”

Shokrakar picks up, then, rests one hand on Shan’s back, between his shoulder blades, and hollers in her best commander voice, “I deny the Qun! I deny the Qun that broke me and made me put myself back together! I deny the Qun that breaks my people, that scares them, that degrades them! I deny the Qun!”

Ataash just nods, her mouth shut. But she looks at the Bull, and after a second, Shan and Shokrakar look at him too, expectant. He looks back at them, realizes what they want him to do, and takes a deep breath.

“I deny the Qun!” he roars, voice booming off the sheer rock walls and echoing back. “I deny the Qun and the choices it gave me!”

He swallows once, hard, and falls silent. Shokrakar is beaming, even Shan has a twisted smile.

“One of us, one of us,” Ataash chants, quietly, and laughs. Shan whacks her on the shoulder,  but he grins too.

The messenger looks up at them, waiting for any last declarations, before he turns and begins to sprint back toward the qunari contingent, visible on the road now, a plume of dust billowing behind them.

“Let’s go get ready,” Shokrakar says, and tugs on Shan’s hair. “We have to get you two prettied up, else you’ll never be able to sneak down there and kill some arvaraad.”

“Let’s go,” Shan agrees, but there’s rising tension in his shoulders. “Everyone, fall into your places.

+++

“We’re gonna have to do something about your hair, kiddo. No Qunari is gonna mistake your hair for a saarebas’s hair.”

“I’m not cutting it off,” he snaps. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” Shokrakar says. Something in her tone suggests she thinks that would be the better idea, but also that she understands why not. She begins to pull it up into a lumpy sort of braid as Ataash sets up their costumes.

They’re costumes, half-assed, last-minute facsimiles of what real saarebas wear. The collars are made of barrel hoops, the pants and boots are cobbled together, the chest wraps are quickly-dyed-and-dried linen, the masks are dented and iron, painted over in fool’s gold. They’re painted with vitaar where it won’t be seen, Ataash’s face masked in a stag, Shan’s face painted like the mask he’s wearing. Their faces are invisible behind the masks.

Legs are painted, too, and necks and chests beneath the collars and the wraps.

They will be safe, or as safe as they can be.

Shokrakar dusts off her hands and surveys her handiwork. Ataash shifts uncomfortably, and Shan stands stock-still. He will be the hardest to disguise: the tattoos across his back, of seabirds and control rods and qunari symbols, are impossible to cover; his hair is too long and too well-cared for to be that of a saarebas. The fact he has hair at all is a major clue that he’s not supposed to be one.

“Now remember,” Shokrakar reminds them. “You have to get in and get out, fast. If they see you, you’re fucked.”

“We know, Shokrakar,” Ataash laughs. “We know what we are up against. You do not need to tell us again.”

“Ah, chalk it up to me being the closest thing to a real mother either of you little fucks ever had. Gotta watch out for someone, since most of the Valo-kas won’t let me flutter around them.”

“We barely let you flutter around us,” Shan points out. It’s the only thing he’s said since his fake collar was placed. He keeps rolling his shoulders. There’s too much tension in the lines of his back, he holds his head at the wrong angle so his horns are up, threatening. He’s making a point of keeping his hands in front of him, instead of behind him the way they’d be bound to make this costume blend better.

“Well, you might. Adaar here lets me flutter a lot.” Shokrakar pats Ataash’s cheek, and Ataash laughs. “Do it for your younger selves. Rip a couple arms off for me.”

“I’ll make sure I raise some of the dead in your name,” Ataash says, tilting her head so her mask and “collar” clank together. Shan flinches. “Make sure they know it’s all your fault.”

“Good,” Shokrakar says, and slaps Adaar on the shoulder. “Make them think twice about fucking with the _vashothari_ again.”

“It won’t stop them,” Shan murmurs.

“Of course it won’t,” Shokrakar agrees, and steps over to adjust his costume. “But maybe it’ll slow them down.” She fiddles with his hair, ties it up a little tighter, tugs on the end of the fancy, twisted braid she put it in to make sure it won’t come loose without serious effort. “Maybe it’ll scare them, seeing what the _vashothari_ can do without their help and even with all their sabotage and terror.” She wraps her arms around him, then, envelops him in a hug. He wraps his arms around her, too, and they rock back and forth a little. “You’re one of the bravest people I know, kiddo. I believe in you. You two will fuck shit up for the qunari. If they don’t have cannons, what can they do against their own mages?”

“Good point,” Shan whispers, tries to press his nose into her shoulder, but only gets the hard metal of his mask instead. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter.

“We need to get going,” Ataash murmurs after letting them have their minute. “They’ll be launching their attacks soon. We need to be there for when they start.”

“I know,” Shokrakar sighs. “I just don’t wanna see the two most powerful people in Thedas dressed like this. Really don’t want to see your corpses when all this is over, so I hope that magic you worked does what it’s supposed to, Adaar. If it doesn’t, I’ll bring your brother back from the dead and get him to help me kill you again.”

“Can’t kill a necromancer,” Ataash laughs. “Not one being guarded by old things.”

“Sure you can. You just have to work really hard at it, I’m sure. Everything dies.” Shokrakar nods and lets go of Shan. “You two be careful.”

“We know, Shokrakar,” Ataash replies, sighing. There’s a smile in her voice. “We will be. Come on, kadan. Let’s get this over with,” she says to Shan. They head toward the undercroft balcony, and lever themselves over, headed around to the back of the force, where the mages are.

+++

Theres chanting at the gates, and the inquisition soldiers look dubiously at one another before Valo-kas and the tal-vashoth refugees start chanting back, louder, angrier, with more smiles. They rattle their weapons, Their faces painted in bold colors of every sort except red. There is not a lick of red to be seen on a single vashoth face in the entire crowd--yellow, green, orange, purple, white, black, blue, everything but red. They’re painted like animals, like weapons, a few like skulls, the mages with flames on their faces.

They look savage, but they’re also looking at each other, grinning, laughing, poking at vitaar and loping their arms through each others’, playing with little flames in  their hands, checking arrows and swords and bows and axes and mauls over again. They muscle their way to the front of the crowd massing at the gates, and, led by Shokrakar, start up a chant that no one else understands. They laugh when they finish one repetition, and then start again, growing in volume and vehemence until even the humans are tempted to join in.

“Are you ready?” Shokrakar hollers to her company, and her company yells back. She has a bloodthirsty smile on her face, vitaar smeared haphazardly over the scarred half, the good half painted like a flower with delicate tendrils curling off it.

Cullen asks the same of his troops, then the Grey Wardens and chevaliers of theirs. The Bull doesn’t even have to ask, just look at the Chargers, who roar in response.

They mass of people begins to split, then--mages and archers onto the battlements, soldiers with shields alternating rows with soldiers without them. There’s a lot of clanking, a lot of elbowing, a lot of yelled, joking insults. Shokrakar muscles her way through the crowd to the Bull.

“Hey, tal-vashoth,” she yells at him. “Did your vitaar like a qunari. Don’t fuck it up now.” She licks her thumb and rubs at the spots of red on his face. “Don’t wear red. Red’s for qunari. Wash it off, I’ll paint you like a cow, since you’re so insistent on being the Iron Bull.”

The Bull laughs and pulls out a handkerchief. He spits in it, and then uses it to mop off his face. Shokrakar grins as she pulls a case of pigments off her belt. She runs her finger through the white, and begins to paint.

+++

Ataash can hear Shan’s labored breathing. He’s anxious, she can feel it coming off him in waves. She wishes she could offer a hand, could scratch at his scalp, could kiss him until his breathing evened out, could run her hands down his arms until he could breathe again, could offer her hands so he could run his fingers over her palms the way he does sometimes, like he doesn’t have their calluses and creases memorized.

They’re trying to get around behind the massing qunari, since there’s no way they can approach from the front. The saarebas will be in the rear, too, so they can provide support. They do better with ranged fighting anyway. It keeps more of Shan’s tattoos invisible, too. The saarebas can’t say anything about his hair or the tattoos, or the badly-made disguises, and none of the other qunari are going to turn around. That would be cowardice, and that’s not allowed.

Listening to Shan breathe, half a step behind, finally gets to be too much, and Ataash turns around to face Shan. He stops short.

She rests her hands on his biceps, curls her fingers just enough to reassure him.

“You’re more than what you’re wearing,” she tells him.

“It’s too familiar,” he replies. “It’s--it’s past uncomfortable. I don’t know if I can--” He swallows, audible even through the mask. “I have to but--I’m scared.”

“What can I do to help?” Ataash asks. She pushes his mask aside, then hers. The masks sit awkwardly, angled over their shoulders.

Shan reaches down into his collar. He pulls out the piece of gold he has on a necklace.

“Hold onto this for me. I can still feel it but not--not for real. Not the way a real control rod would feel. Reminds me I’m free.”

“Alright,” Ataash says, and he drops the necklace into her hand. He’s let her fiddle with it before, a few times, but only incidentally. Never with a purpose. It’s a reminder for him, not a gewgaw for others to play with.

Ataash drapes it over her neck, and grins down at Shan.

“I’ll keep it safe,” she promises, and leans forward to kiss his forehead.

“Thank you,” he says, and leans into the kiss.

“You ready to go?” Ataash asks. Shan’s fingers are on her waist, fiddling with the bottom hems of her chest wrap.

“Let’s get this over with,” Shan says, and takes a deep breath before he swings his mask back into place. “Wish I had my binder,” he mutters.

“I know,” Ataash agrees, and runs her hand down his back. “At least you can make some qunari lives living hell for a little bit.”

“Yeah,” Shan agrees, scratches at the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m still not--still not sure how we’re going to do this.”

‘We’ll figure it out.,” Ataash reassures him.

“Then let’s go.” Shan’s tone has changed, a little of the fear seeping out to be replaced with determination.

“Let’s,” Ataash agrees.

+++

“They’ve got a fucking battering ram, why am I not surprised,” Shokrakar mutters. She’s on the battlements, the Bull next to her, surveying the battlefield. They’re waiting for Ataash and Shan to appear in the back, or for the qunari to start firing or battering. Right now, there’s just a lot of yelling on both sides. The inquisition archers are inspecting their gaatlok arrows, checking for structural consistency and rolling the fuses between their fingers. There are a collection of slow matches set along the walls at intervals, so that no one has to go too far to light their arrows. Shokrakar has a paper tube with a fuse in one hand, her own slow match in the other. There are iron balls in the tube with the _gaatlok_ , small enough to rattle when she turns the tube, big enough to cause damage at high speeds. If she aims it just right, she figures she can cripple someone. Maybe two someones.

“Came prepared,” the Bull agrees. “Better get our men back from the gate.”

“No. The gate will hold. We need Adaar and Shan to start the rear offensive before we do anything up here. We need a distraction.” Shokrakar squints at the back of the column, tries to see if there are any figures that shouldn't be there. She can’t tell, at this distance. They should be getting close; there aren’t that many Qunari.

“They’re gonna bust through the gate before they get around back there,” the Bull argues.

“No they won’t,” Shokrakar replies absentmindedly. She can see unusual movement in the back--their people, then. “‘Cause those are ours right there.”

She whistles, once, loud, piercing, and the archers stand at attention.

“Light your charges!” she hollers, and they do.

“Draw!”

Bowstrings are drawn, everyone chooses their targets. She lights her own fuse, cocks her arm.

“Fire!” she roars, and threescore arrows rain down on the Qunari, long with a dozen hand-thrown charges. It’s a few seconds, and then the first boom rings out, followed by a cacophony of explosions.

The Qunari noise turns into chaos.

The battering ram hits the door, and the door buckles, but it holds.

+++

There was no agreed signal, because a signal would be suspicious.

The boom in the front is a pretty good indicator they’ve been, seen, though, and Ataash and Shan wade into the crowd. The saarebas aren’t doing anything, not yet, not without orders. Orders are coming, though, as the arvaraad turn to shout.

The first one falls without a sound, his eyes bugging and grabbing at his throat.

The mark on Ataash’s hand is glowing green, and a spirit lashes out around its victim, hitting a few more soldiers as it works itself into a frenzy. Shan lobs a bolt of lightning at another arvaraad, and the unaccosted six order the saarebas to turn on Shan and Ataash.

There are ten bewildered saarebas among them, though, bumbling and afraid, making muffled noises of terror.

Ataash charges through the ranks, grabs the control rods off the arvaraad’s belt, ducks a wild bolt of energy from the spirit she summoned. Shan disappears and reappears next to a third arvaraad, gets his arm around the man’s neck and twists until he hears a snap. The arvaraad falls, and Shan grabs the control rods.

One of the saarebas seems to get the idea, and turns on the arvaraad closest to them, grabs his neck and sends a pulse of lightning through his body, so he falls, twitching, to join his fellows. They turns to look at Shan and Ataash, and they smile. Ataash whoops and hurls herself into another arvaraad, headbutting him in the gut so that another saarebas--a different one!--can hit him with a fireball while he’s down.

People are starting to notice, though, and most of the saarebas are bewildered and not sure what to do. The saarebas who are still under the influence of their control rods--fifteen of them, a range of ages--are closing in around Shan and Ataash, who are fighting closer and closer together.

But one of the free saarebas comes to their rescue, laying down a wall of flame that drives the controlled saarebas back. Shan signs his thanks, and the saarebas nods before it goes back to fighting off the soldiers that are starting to turn on them.

Ataash takes out another two arvaraads, marks them so that spirits take control of their bodies and fight the soldiers off. They're a line of defense, strange, walking corpses, their eyes blank. The control rods don’t register their movement, and there are only five saarebas left.

Shan kills their arvaraad with a blade, pulled from the fade and shaped by will. The man makes an awful _gack_ noise, and blood pours out of his mouth.

Shan hurls up a barrier to block them off from the soldiers, who begin to pound at it with their swords.

“Won’t hold for long,” he gasps, face still hidden behind his mask. “We can’t keep you safe, you’re going to have to fight. If you can manage being tal-vashoth, we have a place for you, with us, but you’re going to have to fight your way up to the fortress.” He points up at Skyhold. There are flaming arrows coming down off the battlements. The battering ram is at the door, and the door buckles when it hits. It doesn’t break. He unloops the ribbons hold his mask on, lets it fall to the ground next to himself. “If you can’t do it, go down the path, we won’t stop you. This is your choice. You choose.” He stops, blinks once, then says. “We’ll destroy your control rods, either way. It’s your choice.But we have a place for you. Where you can still be part of a whole. You don’t have to be alone, and you don’t have to be selfish.” He dumps the control rods he’s collected onto the cobblestones, and Ataash does the same with hers. 

“If you know which one is yours, you can take it,” she tells them. “You can destroy it yourself.”

“It’s very liberating,” Shan says. “But do it quickly, because that barrier won’t hold much longer.”

The saarebas look at each other for half a second; forty newly-minted people not sure what to do with themselves. Then five of them rush forward, reach for control rods, and clutch them to their chests. They drop them into their collars, keep them protected. Then more of them grab at their rods, and soon there are none left on the ground. A good number--seven or eight-- hold their rods at arms length, a few stare at them in curiosity, a couple clutch them like they’re the last line of defense against the world. Six take their rods and run down the path.

Thirty-four stay standing where they are, rods in hand, mouths set.

“You can take off your masks,” Ataash says. “You’re people now. You don’t need to hide.”

And they don’t.

Masks clatter to the ground, one after another, and thirty-four people stare at Ataash and Shan with wide eyes. Most of them look sleepless. Ataash sheds her masks too. Shan shakes his head, and then turns so his back is to them.

“We have some Qunari to kill, _kadanari_.”

Ataash turns and loops one arm over his shoulders, squeezes once.

“ _Nehraa vashothari_!” she bellows, and the barrier falls.

+++

The explosive charges have a good number of the Qunari limping, but they’re not disabled yet. Shokrakar is cursing to herself, in a colorful blend of a half-dozen languages. The qunari archers started firing back, and now she’s hiding behind the battlements, lobbing explosives when she can. It’s not very effective, and she thinks it’s probably time to get her boots on the ground and join the rest of Valo-kas. The delegated captain has it under control up here, especially with that Sera kid helping out. She’s a damn good shot, and Shokrakar is happier just watching her. She’s good at this, does occasional trick shots for shits and giggles, laughs high and wild. Good sound. One they need more of on the battlefield.

Shokrakar rolls to the top of the steps--she’s too tall, they’ll pick her off right away if she stands up straight (the hazards of being an unusually tall tal-vashoth)--and then scuttles down them until she’s safely low enough to avoid being shot directly. Doesn’t protect her from any shots still affected by gravity. She keeps her eyes up.

The Bull is standing at the gate with his Chargers, and Shokrakar waves him down.

“You ready?” she asks.

“Ready as I’ll be,” he replies, with a boisterous grin. Ben-hassrath still thinks killing is fun. Either that, or ben-hassrath does a good job of hiding everything else. Either way, ben-hassrath is going to break again one of these days. Shan explained how he broke once before, and the other tal-vashoth had nodded and made faces like they expected nothing different.

“Alright,” Shokrakar says. She doesn’t trust him at her back, but she trusts being behind him. Nothing like a giant man with a sword to break ranks so you can bash skulls in. She rounds on her tal-vashoth, and looks as many of them in the eye as she can. Her head is up, her horn curling proud and giving her extra height, eyes narrowed. “What do we say to the Qunari?” she bellows.

“I deny the Qun!” comes back the ground-rattling answer, every voice in concert.

“Good!” she yells, and turns. “Open the gates!”

The gates crank back, and another round of explosions sounds from outside.

+++

They’ve only lost one saarebas so far, and old one, who had sat down at the side of the bridge when they saw how many qunari were between them and the doors. They had waved at Shan who had turned to check on them, and indicated he should go on ahead. Shan had nodded, and turned back to the tide of qunari, and had heard the roar of fire behind him.

He hadn’t looked back. Couldn’t bear to look back, couldn’t watch someone else die for this. He makes sure the next qunari dies by fire, in retaliation.

Most of the qunari at the back here are ranged fighters, with javelins and throwing spears and bows and arrows. They’re still dangerous short range, since the spears are still pointy, but they have to turn their backs to the archers on the walls. A couple fall to well aimed shots, and the saarebas take it as a sign that they should do better.

One lays down a wall of fire, followed by a burst of lightning from another. Three of the have taken to making barriers--they’re quick studies; Shan hasn’t spoken to any of them but they seem to have barriers figured out just from watching. A few start launching ice projectiles.

They tear through lines of qunari easily.

It feels good.

He knows he’s smiling; he can feel the hate wrapping its claws around his belly and whispering in his ear, the anger and the fury and and the hurt all congealed into a black-tar lump at the back of his neck. He can feel it gnawing away; can hear Ataash’s voice, the way she talks at night when he wakes up and she’s curled on her side, watching him. The way she tells him not to feed the hate, toward anything, because hate breeds hate and the more you feed a feral dog the more it comes to sit on your doorstep and the harder it is to get out your door without being bitten.

It’s hard to feel anything but hate when he looks at the Qunari, though.

He can hear Ataash, twenty feet over, sending Qunari falling, flailing, crashing to the ground. He can feel the dark thing he sees out of the corner of his eye sometimes, the dark thing with its hands wrapped around the dark thing he has in his own head. It’s hard to assign feelings and associations, so surrounded by blood and gore.

He tries to shut off his brain.

It’s easier to just do, and to think about it later.

+++

She feels the shift in the magic around them, knows what’s happening before she has words or an idea. For all the frustration this connection to the Veil has caused, this is one of its positives--she can feel the magic done from hate instead of fear and desperation and love. She tries to reach for whatever spirits are still here, tries to send love and positivity back out, but there's too much happening, and the spear she takes through her stomach is more than enough to distract her. She doesn’t even have to do anything, feels the dark things in her bones hurl themselves forward, sees the terror on the Qunari’s face and feels it reflected back on her own face.

They are the only ones that hear the shriek, and the qunari dies without a sound.

When Ataash looks down, the wound in her stomach is gone, no scar, so blood, no indication it was there.

She can still feel it, though, her hand clamped against her body. She may not be bleeding, may have been saved again by something she’d like to pretend she understands, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

She raises her arms and begins to call another round of spirits into the new corpses, still warm, still with the threads of life running through them. These bodies are easier to point out to the spirits than dry, long-buried skeletons.

She can feel eyes on her back.

The spear went through her, she knows, and she is leading the column of mages, and she is clearly no longer impaled.

There will be questions later.

+++

Valo-kas, accompanied by Shokrakar, the Chargers, and the Bull, are the first ones out the gate. A wall of shields meets a wall of shields with a ground-shaking crash, swords and spears rattling.

It’s strange to be surrounded by tal-vashoth, their vitaar painted in patterns the Bull has never seen before. He remembers how savage they looked, on Seheron, bloody-fanged wolves and screeching birds of prey, marred by water and sweat and violence. They had been children playing with facepaint to him then.

Here, it is the Qunari who look savage.

It’s the Qunari who do not carry animals on their faces, the qunari who use patterns without meanings behind them. It’s the qunari who use patterns they’ve always used, just because.

It’s the tal-vashoth that put meaning behind their vitaar. It’s personal, something they’ve wrenched from Qunari hands and made their own.

He thinks next time, he’ll try the skull pattern out. There’s something undignified about being painted like a cow, even if it does make him laugh. It’s not very intimidating.

Not that it has to be intimidating--Shokrakar is painted like _kasaanda_ , vines trailing down her neck and across her arms. She must have applied the paint to her face with a brush, because it’s too delicate to have been done with her fingers. She doesn’t have claws, the way a lot of the other tal-vashoth do, hell, it doesn't look like she even has fingernails; looks like they were chewed off in some sort of accident. It happens sometimes, especially on farms. If she’s done as many jobs as she acts like she has, she’s spent enough time with heavy, sharp objects to have ruined her hands. Her vitaar isn’t intimidating, except in its complexity.

But he likes to be intimidating.

It’s strange to be fighting Qunari, to see them staring at him, teeth bared, threatening him.

They fall as easily as anyone else does to his greatsword, but he has to shut off a part of his brain--can’t look at them and call them Qunari yet. Not the way the others do, look them in the eyes, their pupils blown wide and their voices pitches just wrong, to call them Qunari and tell them they deny Qun.

He can’t do it, just grunts as he pulls his sword from a ribcage with a squelching sound. Grunts as he takes a head off a swordsman; grunts as he slices through another's thigh down to bone, so that the blood spurts and he crumples, screaming in pain. Grunts as he blocks and parries and slashes. Krem is on his left, maul swinging. Shokrakar is to his right, bashing her way past the qunari line with her shield. With every hit, he hears the words, gasped, ragged,

“I deny the Qun.”

He lets the words roll around his mind as three more Qunari fall to his blade. Krem grunts when he takes a blow meant for the Bull, the Bull pays him back by hamstringing a qunari so Krem can wallop them with his maul.

One of the qunari closes too fast, gets into hsi space, grabs the strap of his shoulder guard, and before he can shove the qunari away, he says, “Look at what you are now, Hissrad. You’ve gone native.”

“I denied the Qun!” he roars, and shoves the Qunari away. Shokrakar runs him through with a sword before the Bull can ready a swing.

“Glad to hear it!” she yells over the din of the battle, turns her back on the fighting long enough to grin at him, wide enough to show teeth filed to points.

She reminds him of a lot of people in that moment, Qunari he knew when he was younger.

Before they were told what they were by someone else.

The moment is over before he has time to do more than feel and make the connection, and then they’re being swarmed by Qunari shouting curses and taunts, and there’s only time to act.

+++

Qunari are breaking through their line at the gates.

Not a lot, not yet, but there’s a wave of them coming, breezing past the vanguard and bashing their way through the support troops, knocking soldiers aside until they arrive in the courtyard and turn around to attack from behind.

Ataash had sat down with Blackwall a few days after the news of the incoming Qunari had broken, and they had talked about what it meant. She had told him he didn’t have to fight, of course, that it was his decision.

It’s hard to imagine not fighting, now, with one of Adaar’s mages next to him and Qunari charging, swords drawn.

The tal-vashoth had made him nervous at first, but here, now, they’re family.

“ _Kadantaam_ ,” Ataash had explained once. “The people where my heart lies.” She had laughed when he had avoided explicitly expressing his discomfort at so many ‘qunari,’ the way he had done when they were back in Haven, when he had admitted he hadn’t expected someone like her to be Inquisitor. She had taken him to meet Valo-kas the next day, and they had watched him with interest, made him feel like an insect beneath glass.

They had accepted him though, patted him on the back and said things to Ataash that he assumed were dirty jokes by their inflection, had invited him to sit with them.

He’d gotten more comfortable since then, and it’s paying off now.

He recognizes them now, and they’re as close to family as he thinks he’s going to get anymore, at least outside Ataash and Shan.

They’re being pushed aside by Qunari though, falling one after the other, most disabled, very few dead. There’s a whole troop of Qunari, shoving their way toward the back of the inquisition forces, and he’s sharp enough to know a flanking maneuver when he sees one.

He calls for Cassandra, who fights to his side.

“They’re flanking,” he says, and she nods, and the two of them raise their shields and begin to push back.

They end up engaged with two Qunari shieldbearers, and very quickly find themselves flanked by Qunari they can just barely fend off as they pour through the gates--somewhere further toward the front, they must have breached the defenses, and a dozen Qunari are attacking the back of the defenders.

Cassandra takes a blow to the shoulder, and she stumbles, and one of the attacking Qunari raises his blade.

Before he can bring it down, through, three arrows sprout from his throat, and he gurgles for half a second before collapsing.

Cassandra looks up to the battlements, where three people stand with bows in hand, loosing arrows into the crowd below, each one hitting its intended, Qunari, target, without fail. One of them catches Cassandra’s eye--they smile wide, the scabs on their lips still visible even from here, and sign, “ _kadantaam_ ” at her. Shan had run her through the sign, over and over, until she had demanded he teach her other signs so she could make an actual sentence.

She readjusts her shield and signs it back as best she can.

Next to her, Blackwall yells as he takes down another Qunari, and she throws herself back into the fight.

+++

The archers and spear throwers stop appearing, and now it’s just soldiers with shields and swords, a few with axes and mauls and greatswords.

They fall like the rest of their brethren, unaccustomed to so many mages turning their power against them. A few human or elven mages were no difficulty, they were so small and fragile, so undisciplined.

Here, though, faced with thirty-some Qunari, trained and obedient and ready to die for their cause, they are outmatched.

Some of the saarebas have broken their cuffs, and one strangles a Qunari with their newly-freed hands. They’re thin, rangy, more height and bone than muscle and bulk. Shan sees himself in them, figures he should point them out to Ataash and Shokrakar before the kid goes off the deep end with freedom.

Ataash heads a phalanx of five mages, all of them pouring power into the same spells and ideas, Ataash leads the point, introduces stomachs to her knees, throats to her elbows, hands to her teeth, until the other mages can compensate and take him down with magic. She’s splattered in blood, sweat making her vitaar run, leaving muddy-colored lines snaking down her neck and across her collarbones and shoulders. The stag, once so clearly painted, is just blobs of color now.

Form does not stop vitaar from function, though, and Qunari claws barely scratch her skin.

None of the blood is hers.

+++

The Bull meets the saarebas in the middle of the bridge, Ataash to his far right, Shan close to his left, the others coming behind.

There are still qunari, scattered among the troops, but they are overwhelmed and fighting a losing battle. Ataash has stopped deliberately calling spirits, is letting herself be a channel for them instead, corpses reanimating before they even hit the ground.

There is no final, defining moment.

Whoever was commanding the troops died with the rest, just another corpse, on the bridge or off it, there is no final death.

The fighting stops slowly, and the reanimated dead begin to falter and fall and break apart. The spirits and wisps fade, and bodies slump.

Everyone is breathing hard, everyone is still yelling and crying and singing and chanting.

But people turns away from the Qunari corpses, begin to walk back into Skyhold, sheathe their weapons and lean on each other. Some limp, a lot cradle arms, a small few walk away usncathed. The Bull is limping. Shokrakar has a makeshift tourniquet wrapped around her bicep, but she’s still bleeding badly. She nods to Ataash before she wobbles her way back through the gates.

Shan waves Ataash away, tells her to go rest, go calm everyone down, and he’ll deal with the mages. The bodies can wait until dawn, no one is coming to Skyhold soon. Ataash nods, makes a move to walk away, then stops. Without a word, she reaches down into her costume collar and pulls out Shan’s necklace. She presses it into his hand without a word, in full view of the other mages. He curls his fingers around it and nods. She smiles down at him, presses her lips to his forehead in a familiar gesture, and then picks her way through the sprawled bodies.

He waves the saarebas in, and puts his necklace back on while they watch. He wiggles out of the collar, too, tugs at the knot in his hair until his dreads fall loose, past his shoulders, crosses his arms over his chest. He wants his shirt and his binder back; the cold is nipping at his ribs and he can feel the gooseflesh on his arms and his back. The wind is picking up.

“You’re free now,” he says. “We don’t have anyone who will hold your control rods here. No one except you, if you want to leave it intact. I would caution against that, though. There’s a lot of people here who…” He looks back over his shoulder, sees the people on the battlements. Some of them are holding torches, most of them are watching him. A couple wave, and he nods. “We’re becoming more than they can ignore, I mean--not that you’ve...not that you’ve been tal-vashoth long enough to...understand.” He hunches his shoulders, has a hard time looking at them. He’s gotten used to being smaller than Ataash and the Bull and Cullen, and then again with all the other non-mage tal-vashoth, but now, here, he remembers how small he is. It’s not comfortable. “We’ll free your lips once we’re inside, and we can talk about what you all want to do.” He looks up then, tries to focus on the sensation of hair against his bare back instead of all the eyes staring at him. “We have a friend, Shokrakar, who runs a mercenary company, if you’d rather stick with something like you’ve done for a while now. There’s a place here, too, if you don’t want to leave yet. We have enough mages around that you won’t be singled out because of that. Or, if you want, there are a lot of little villages that could use a mage. For the kids being born with magic. They need someone to teach them. If you need a way to be part of something bigger than yourself.”

The saarebas look at each other, grunt, nod, raise their hands to sign rapid-fire at each other.

“Tonight, we’ll feed you and patch up your wounds and open your mouths. You can take as long as you want to decide after that. Let’s get you all inside, for now.” He smiles at them, and waves for them to go ahead.

One at a time, they walk past him, up toward the hold.

+++

One of the doctors is fussing over Shokrakar, who is leaning heavily on the open gate. Ataash stands next to her, watching the saarebas make their way up to the gate. They still look scared.

“You need to stop moving,” the doctor orders Shokrakakr.

“Sorry, ma’am,” she replies, absentmindedly. She reaches up to rub at her neck with her good arm. “That’s a lot of new people.”

“A lot at once, sure,” Ataash agrees. “But they’ve never been people before. They chose, so we do what we can.”

“Oh, I know,” Shokrakar agrees. “Just thinking about resources. Valo-kas is getting too big to provide for all these people, if we have too many of the mages join us. Need more and better paying work. Gonna have to head out soon, if we wanna keep eating and stop living off your hospitality.”

“Our doors are always open. You saved our asses enough times, it’s only fair we return the favor.” Ataash shrugs and gestures to the saarebas at the front of the line, smiling. She crosses her arms again as they walk through the gate and look up, eyes wide and expression awed.

“You’re a good kid, you know that?” Shokrakar loops her arm around Ataash’s shoulders, and Ataash leans into the touch. She doesn’t uncross her arms.

“Thanks. I should be be getting back down to the basement, show them to their new, temporary home. Find a few people to help me cut them loose.”

“I’ll send down a few of your mages,” Shokrakar offers, and lets her arm slide off Ataash’s shoulders. She hisses as the doctor tightens the bandages. “Show them what they can be.”

“Shan should be able to help with that,” Ataash agrees. The saarebas are beginning to cluster in the middle of the yard, elbows bumping each other a they try to take up as little space as possible.

“Nothing like a tiny, angry tal-vashoth to show you your real potential,” Shokrakar laughs.

“Hey, now, he’s done very well as the Inquisitor.” Ataash purses her lips and raises her eyebrows, the universal expression of I’m-waiting-for-an-apology. Shokrakar looks at her, and they both break down into laughter, just a little too wild, just a little too close to hysterical.

“He has done very well,” Shokrakar admits, giggling. “You picked a good one.”

“I sure think so,” Ataash agrees, looks down the bridge to grin at Shan, who’s bringing up the rear. “I should go kiss him. He looks like he needs it.”

“Hmmm, yeah,” Shokrkakar agrees. “You go do what you need to do, kiddo. I gotta go patch up my bunch.” She leans in, drops her voice so only Ataash can hear her. “And if you think you can keep him in line, get the ben-hassrath to come with you while you cut their stitches. He’s said the words, you heard him do it the first time, but I don’t think he really quite understands it yet. Don't think he knows what he’s disavowing.”

“‘Course he doesn’t,” Ataash agrees. It’s not malicious; she shrugs and watches Shan wave the saarebas back in around him. “If he just finally said the words alone, and only after we guilted him into fighting with us, he doesn’t know what the words mean yet.” She shrugs again. “He’s never been hungry.”

Shokrakar grunts. “With any luck, these new kids won’t ever have to be hungry either.”

“With luck,” Ataash agrees. “But luck has never been on our side.”

Shokrakar grunts again and pats Ataash’s back. “Do what you can,” she offers, and Ataash nods.

“I’ll come find you later. Might be a lot later. It depends on if any of them have any decisions made already.”

“I look forward to it.” Shokrakar nods

+++

The bunks have been shoved against the walls, boxes of possessions piled on them, out of the way. There are cushions scattered on the floor, four tal-vashoth mages, one vashoth mage, and one ex-ben-hassrath with knives sitting on half of them, ex-saarebas, most with their arms wrapped around themselves and their jaws set hard, on the other half. They’ve been shuffled into different clothes, most of them too big because they belong to well-fed, very muscular vashoth, and Ataash has the pot of soup boiling over the fire. The saarebas are still clustered together, the ones with free mouths eating, the ones without looking nervously at each other and the vashothari all around the room. Everyone else is ignoring them, for a certain value of ignorance. No one is harassing them, or forcing them to join in their conversations. They’re just another assortment of people.

Shan is the fastest with his knife, one hand splayed across his subject’s cheek, the other wrapped carefully around the bone handle on the knife. His subject stays perfectly still, their eyes closed, breathing softly so their breath just barely ghosts over his knuckles.

When the last stitch is gone, he sits back and grins at them, so wide his dimples come out and his eyes crinkle.

“Do you have a name?” he asks. “If you don't, that’s alright. You don’t need one here.”

They look at him and think for a moment.

“Not...not yet,” they decide, voice croaky and raw, barely loud enough to be audible.

“That’s alright. We’ll probably give you a nickname before long, but you’re always welcome to change it if you want. We’re pretty lax about names. There’s not enough of us to forget who’s who without names yet.” He shrugs and smiles. “You’re welcome to have some of the soup, it’s beef and vegetables. Is there anything else you wanted to say?”

The saarebas turns their hands around in their lap, wrings them together. They look away.

“You’re...a man,” they say.

“Yes,” Shan agrees, eyebrows lifting.

“And she,” they nod to Ataash, who is sitting on the other side of the Bull, “is a woman.”

“Yes,” Shan agrees again.

“Who decided that?” the saarebas asks. “Why are you a man but she’s a woman?”

“We decided. You can choose too. You can choose to not be either of those, or to be something else, or to never be anything.” Shan shrugs. “It’s up to you. You can be a man or a woman or something else. We’ll take you, gladly, no matter what.”

“Oh.” They look down at their hands. There are scabs around their fingernails, from picking at hangnails and fidgeting. “I don’t have to decide now?”

“Nope!” Shan dunks his knife in the bucket of hot water to clean it, even though there’s no blood. “You don’t have to make decisions for a long time. If you want to have kids, Shokrakar will probably want your, uh. Qunari name. She likes to keep them on record, so that everyone who has kids knows who’s related to who, so that nobody is having kids with their cousins.”

“Cousins?” the saarebas asks.

“Human name for a family member. The person who birthed you has a sibling--someone with the same parents. That sibling has a child. That child is your cousin.”

The saarebas traces the connections on their fingers, then nods.

“Kind of a useless word to have,” they say.

“I’d agree, but we don’t have a word for it. So we use theirs.” Shan leans in. “We do that for a lot of things. You get used to it, after a while. Most of us have a hard time with the word ‘saarebas,’ but Ataash started using ‘mage’ instead, and we haven’t gone back to the old words.”

“Mage,” the saarebas says, and Shan leans back and nods. They grin. “I like that word.”

“Good!” Shan beams at them. “Why don’t you go get some soup, and settle in with some of the others?”

“Thank you,” the saarebas says, before scrambling to their feet, and heading toward the soup kettle.

+++

“You have a name?” Ataash asks, turning the saarebas’s head gently with one palm. Their face is scarred, long lines wrapping around from the back, like someone swung a whip a little too high one time. They shake their head, lift their hands to sign.

“No name, no tongue,” they sign.

“Oh,” Ataash says, and nods. “You can pick a name, here, if you want. You can be whatever you want.”

The saarebas shakes their head.

“Don’t want a name,” they sign.

“Not even if you can choose?” Ataash asks. The saarebas shakes their head again. “That’s alright, then,” Ataash says. “But we--we might nickname you. If we need to get your attention. You can always tell us to cut it out but--” she laughs. “Sometimes we forget, so you’ll have to remind us a lot, sorry.”

The saarebas nods.

“Now hold still for just a minute, while I cut your stitches.”

The saarebas complies, and the stitches plink apart rapid-fire.

They rub at their lips when Ataash pulls away to admire her handiwork.

“That alright?” Ataash asks. They nod, once, slowly. Ataash grins. “One more question, if you don’t mind. Are you a man? or a woman? Are you neither?”

The saarebas raises one eyebrow and tugs their shirt against their chest to reveal breasts. Ataash shrugs.

“Still doesn't tell me if you’re a woman or not,” she says. “I have them and I’m not always. Shokrakar doesn’t have them and I’m pretty sure she’s a woman.”

The saarebas thinks on that for a moment, then signs, “I’m a woman.”

Ataash nods and grins. “Good! We need more women. We need more everybody, but we need more women especially.”

“What for?” she signs.

“Women are good for a lot of things.” Ataash says, and shrugs. A grin creeps across her face, and she leans forward so she can see around the Bull and the saarebas under his hands. “Women are better for more things than men.”

“Fuck off,” Shan sighs, and makes a rude gesture. Ataash giggles. She turns back to her saarebas.

“He’s _asalataam_ ,” she explains. “You can have that here. I don’t know if you want it, but there are people here who will love you in whatever way you want.”

“I don’t,” she signs, “but thank you.”

“You’ll have friends here, too,” Ataash adds, a little quieter. “Friends, and people who understand. We had a couple mages in valo-kas who were like you. One of them died recently. The others are still around somewhere. You might want to visit with them. Have more people like yourself around you.”

“Thank you,” the saarebas signs again, and stands. She doesn’t wait for Ataash to point to the soup line, just goes without a backward glance. Ataash watches her go.

She stops before she gets more than a step away, then turns around.

“I saw you stabbed,” she signs, eyes narrowing. “You should not have survived that.”

“It’s a long story,” Ataash replies. “Not one for tonight, and not one you want to hear before you have learned other things about magic than what you know now.”

The woman presses her lips together and studies Ataash for a moment, before she turns again and goes to the food line.

+++

“So you’re a mage, huh?” the Bull asks. The saarebas in front of him regards him with a flat stare, makes no moves to respond. “Used to be ben-hassrath,” he offers. The mage continues to stare. “I left when, ah…”

The mage continues to stare, and he gives up.

He’s quick with the knife, frees the mage’s mouth without another word. The mage rubs at their lips and picks at the thread, standing up and walking away before he can say anything else.

Shan leans back to tug on their shirt, looks up at them and asks if they have a name and if they’re a man or a woman or something else, if they have something they want to do with their life now that they’re free. They shuffle a little, embarrassed, and tell Shan that their name is Genad, that they’re a man, and that he would like to work in a pottery shop, if that’s possible. If not pottery, then carpentry. Shan grins up at him, tells him to go down to the barn the next day and talk to the man with the beard. Genad smiles shyly, tucks his chin against his chest. Shan grins up at him, awkwardly pats his knee, and then points over to the soup line.

Another saarebas sits down in front of the Bull, still doesn’t look him in the eye.

None of them look at him.

+++

It’s well past midnight by the time everyone is settled into new beds in the cellar, and Ataash and Shan lean heavily on each other as they slog up the stairs to their quarters.

There’s a tub of hot water next to the fireplace, which has burned low in their absence. The blankets on the bed are turned down, and the balcony doors are already locked and sealed for the night.

“You wash first,” Ataash tells Shan, half-heartedly waves at the tub. “I’ll, uh. I’ll just. Wait.”

“Mmmm, no, we can probably both bathe at the same time. They gave us two rags so.”

“Oh, good.”

They strip down, chest wraps unraveled, boots and pants tossed aside, underthings tossed on top of the pile. Shan dunks the two rags, wrings them out, tosses one to Ataash. She scrubs the vitaar off her face and neck while she makes her way over to the tub.

She dunks her rag again, scrubs off more vitaar from her chest and from her legs. She sinks down onto the rug and leans against the tub. Shan looks at her, sighs, and does the same, settling down next to her.

They sit close, their shoulders touching. Ataash starts humming to fill the silence, and Shan grins. She catches his expression and elbows him in the ribs, and he elbows her back. She snorts.

“You missed a spot,” she murmurs, and leans back to press her lips against the soft patch of skin behind his ear. He leans into the kiss until she sticks her tongue out and licks him, whereupon he yelps and jerks away while she laughs.

“You’re terrible,” he growls, and hauls himself over to straddle her lap. He loops his arms around behind her neck, and she rests her hands on his hips. She raises her eyebrows and grins up at him.

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” she asks, leans up a little to kiss his chin.

“Yes,” he says, and leans down to kiss her, his arms tightening around her. She lets her hands glide around his back, pulls him closer. “You said after the fight, and I’m holding you to your word.” He pauses, though, their lips brushing against each other with the rises and falls of their chests. They both reek, they both need to rinse their mouths, but there’s no time and no point, not right now. He waits for a signal that she’s onboard.

“I did, didn’t I?” Ataash asks. She curls her hands around the backs of his thighs. He squeaks when she lifts him, curls his legs around her and crosses his ankles. He tries to stay still as she gets her feet under herself and takes careful steps toward the bed. She drops him onto the mattress, and very quickly follows him down.

+++

Valo-kas--including the two inquisitors--spends the next day sweeping through the bodies, looking for any still-living qunari. They find five, in the whole contingent, they count more than three hundred dead. Those still living, they carry back to the courtyard on stretchers, so the healers can do what they can for them. The rest of the bodies, they begin to stack.

They’re all covered in blood by the time they return to Skyhold.

Ataash tells Josephine to draft a letter to the Arishok, telling him that they are cremating the bodies of his soldiers, and that they died honorable deaths. Then she goes out to help with the bathing efforts at the well, where they’re dumping buckets of water on each other to wash off the worst of the blood. Shokrakar looks like someone threw three or four buckets on her, she’s standing, dripping, in a puddle, looking like a wet dog. She’s also bossing people around like she’s dry and in charge.

When she turns her back, Ataash and Kaariss haul a bucket up, and dump it over Shokrakar, who stands statue-still, as if she didn’t notice the ten gallons of water dumped on her head. Ataash and Kaariss run away, giggling and soaking wet.

+++

They have a feast, if it can be called there--not so much a celebration as a welcome, both to the new tal-vashoth and to the returning ambassadors. They mourn their losses--not many--and trade wilder and wilder tales. The inquisitors are in the thick of it, Shan slowly moving from Ataash’s side to her lap as she gets drunker and everyone else around them shows no signs of actually caring.

When the band starts playing, Valo-kas is the first group on their feet, helping push tables off to the sides of the hall so there’s room to dance. They pair off, and do an admirable job at some fancy Orlesian dance. When nobles comment on it, Shokrakar tells about their exploits at various fancy parties. Ever the saleswoman, she calls members over to give testimonials, and a few of the nobles look thoughtful as the night goes on, sizing Valo-kas up.

The dancing picks up, once Valo-kas has had their fun, as they move in to take the place of the band once at a time, until fifteen of them are clustered around, most of them singing.

One of them runs off to get a drum, and soon the dancing moves from slow, stately Orlesian dances, to fast paced vashoth dances, full of whirling people and laughter. Ataash is dragged onto the dancefloor by Shokrakar, and kept there by a gaggle of children, including the mages she most recently introduced to Fiona and the other circle mages. She eventually drags Shan out too, and they spin and whirl and kiss along with everyone else.

When she goes back to dancing with the children, the Bull makes his way out onto the floor to dance with Shan.

Shan shies away at first, give the Bull a suspicious look.

“If I’m tal-vashoth, I oughta learn to dance like one,” he laughs, and Shan shrugs.

He walks the Bull through the steps without an argument, and as a new songs comes up, they launch into the dance for real.

“I was wrong,” Shan gasps, breathless, halfway through. This song is faster than the last one, requires faster dancing. “Or maybe I wasn’t. You might be alright.”

They spin, and grunt as the force pulls them apart.

“Maybe,” Shan repeats, eyes narrowed as he looks up at the Bull.

There’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, though.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the Bull says, and grins.

 

 


End file.
